


tesseract high

by novoaa1



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (light), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Asexual Vision (Marvel), BAMF Melinda May, Bad Decisions, Bisexual Skye | Daisy Johnson, Blackmail, Blood and Injury, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Depictions of Rape/Non-con, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Getting Together, Healing, Hydra (Marvel), Lesbian Maria Hill, Lesbian Natasha Romanov, Lesbian Wanda Maximoff, Light BDSM, Mild Angst, Mutual Pining, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Natasha Romanov-centric, POV Natasha Romanov, POV Wanda Maximoff, Pancakes, Panic Attacks, Pansexual Clint Barton, Pansexual Pietro Maximoff, Parent Melinda May, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Violence, Past physical abuse, Phil Coulson & Melinda May are Skye's Parents, Pietro Maximoff Feels, Pietro Maximoff Is the Best Brother, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Pride, Shitty Pasts, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, They're All Gay, Underage - Freeform, Underage Drinking, Violence, Wanda Maximoff Feels, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, Wanda Maximoff-centric, Work In Progress, a lot of 'fuck's, and damaged kids trying to heal, and it only happens like. once, and they all deserve better, but like its for a good cause ok?, everyone gets their damn hug, explicit sexual content in later chapters, it's complicated - Freeform, like a fair amount, lots of feels, melinda may is the best mom, phil and leo and jemma are teachers, this is gay, though probably not in the way that you're thinking, though that's fairly minor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2019-12-30 04:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 116,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18307790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Twins Pietro and Wanda Maximoff, after fleeing Sokovia to escape a deeply troubled past, are about to attend their first day of American high school at Tesseract High.Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton have been attending Tesseract for years, each with past secrets of their own. They've built a home, though, with friends like Daisy, Vision, Bruce, and Maria.... and maybe Tony Stark. Jury's still out on that one.Then two new kids with strange accents show up midway through their first semester of senior year, and Natasha finds herself immediately drawn to one of them even as memories from her past scream at her to stay away. But maybe, just maybe, the two of them can find a way to help each other heal.Or: they're all damaged and broken in their own way, but at the end of the day they're trying their best to band together and heal. There's a few bumps in the road, but eventually, they all come to learn that nothing worth it is ever easy.





	1. day one (pov wanda)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So, again I wanna emphasize that this work deals with some pretty heavy themes: past child abuse that includes rape/non-con, physical abuse, etc. 
> 
>  
> 
> I don't plan to be terribly graphic in my depictions of these themes (through flashbacks for the characters, etc.) but please please _please_ just know your triggers; if you even think that this work might be damaging for your mental health in any way, please x-out of the tab now. 
> 
>  
> 
> That said, I love these characters, and I'm excited to do this AU that shows all of them helping each other to heal from their pasts—please don't be afraid to leave a comment and let me know what you think; I would love the feedback!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Pietro and Wanda's first day of school at Tesseract High...
> 
> This should be interesting.

“Pietro, we are going to be late!” Wanda called, wincing at how loud her voice sounded in the cramped trailer—but she also knew her twin wasn’t going to get himself up and changed for their first day at a new school if she dared to be any quieter.

 

She bit her lip and eyed the crooked face of the dusty clock in the kitchen: _7:52_. That meant, in all likelihood, they were going to miss the majority of first period. The brunette girl just sighed at that, watching as the doorway of her and Pietro’s shared room just down the unit’s tiny hall seemed to emit an electric blue light, indicating he’d (finally) begun his morning routine. 

 

Moments later, and on the heels of a quick flash of neon blue wisps of… something, her brother abruptly appeared in the dingy kitchen. Wanda just raised a single brow, watching with an exasperated expression as the disheveled boy snatched a granola bar off the counter, mumbling a distracted “Morning, sis,” over his shoulder before disappearing in another flash of platinum-blonde hair and cerulean blue.

 

A second passed in silence.

 

Wanda didn’t blink as the air next to her crackled with pure energy and her twin promptly appeared beside her; she just shot the barely-winded boy a half-hearted glare with eyes that briefly flashed a glowing crimson to communicate her displeasure before turning to clamber out the trailer’s tiny door, Pietro following closely behind her with a dramatic yawn.

 

“Can I zip us there? Just this once?” Pietro asked his sister once they’d locked the trailer door, squinting their eyes at the blinding sunlight as they began trekking their way to Tesseract High for the very first time. “Please?"

 

(The school year was already about halfway through its first semester, and truthfully, the twins hadn’t been planning to begin attending so late—they’d been technically ‘enrolled’ since early June—but a week before the first day Pietro had zipped the two of them overseas to visit their parents’ graves in Sokovia, and from there, shit had quite promptly hit the fan. 

 

They ended up staying back home a lot longer than intended for all the wrong reasons, missing weeks of school while they were at it… needless to say, it felt something like a much-needed breath of fresh air to finally return to their run-down trailer in the suburbs of Vermont, even if it was the farthest thing from perfect.)

 

Wanda sighed (this wasn’t the first time Pietro had asked, and it probably wouldn’t be the last). “No,” she replied sharply. “You know we cannot risk revealing ourselves like that.”

 

“But Wandaaa,” Pietro whined, and the girl couldn’t help but quirk her lips slightly at his childlike persistence. “We are already late! And besides, I am _way_ too fast to get caught—“

 

“You glow blue when you run,” Wanda deadpanned.

 

Pietro’s brow furrowed. “People will just think it is a—a trick of light or something! I—"

 

“Pietro,” Wanda interrupted her twin pointedly, “if the snake people hear the tiniest whisper about our weird and unexplainable abilities appearing in this town, they’ll come here. And this time, we might not be lucky enough to get out.” 

 

(The ‘snake people’ were, simply put, her and Pietro’s makers… though it’s important to note that Wanda shuddered viscerally at the thought of ever willfully giving those horrible people any sort of credit for who the two of them had become since Sokovia, since being bound with iron chains and subjected to far more suffering than either of them could have possibly prepared themselves to endure. 

 

But, she’ll digress: she and Pietro weren’t born with powers—they’d been blissfully normal growing up in a shoddy excuse for an apartment back in Sokovia until the day their parents had offered them up for horribly invasive experiments after they'd turned fifteen, desperately in need of the money… suffice it all to say, the twins still held complicated and conflicting emotions towards their parents. 

 

But six months came and gone with Pietro and Wanda securely under the snake people’s custody; they had no way of knowing it, but their parents came then to collect their children only to be turned away by the director of the lab, the evil man claiming he had no idea what experiment or to whom they were referring to, that there was no record of such experimental human trials involving adolescent children in their database.

 

Meanwhile, both newly enhanced teenagers remained caged against their will and subjected to torturous experiments, only managing to escape their captivity after another 12 months of unequivocal horror had passed. 

 

They never knew the name of the corporation that captured them, both far more concerned with running from their nightmarish prison and never looking back. They were horribly familiar with the company’s logo, however, because it’d been stamped into everything—the cages, the shock batons, the scalpels. It was a chilling symbol on its own, depicting a skull with multiple snake-like appendages reaching out from underneath and twisting upwards to hold menacing poses on either side—but now, after everything they'd endured, even the thought of it was enough to send Wanda spiraling into a full-on panic attack, and Pietro running furiously across international oceans for hours as though his pants were on fire.

 

Months into their captivity, and, still not knowing the names of any of their captors, Pietro had begun to call them ‘snake men’ and ‘snake women’ whenever he and Wanda spoke in the dead of night.

 

It was fitting, they agreed, and it stuck; ever since then, both twins referred to the terrifying conglomeration only as ’snake people.’)

 

Pietro just pursed his lips at her side, looking uncharacteristically agitated and disproportionately upset at Wanda’s refusal to risk their exposure—immediately the blue-eyed girl could tell that this wasn’t really about her twin wanting to save 30 minutes of walking and zip them to school at all; rather, it was about something else entirely. 

 

She eyed her brother for a moment, taking in his disheveled platinum-blonde hair (it wasn’t bleached; it’d been like that ever since their first phase of the snake people's experiments), the fitted long-sleeved grey shirt he wore tucked haphazardly into knee-length black running shorts as he dragged his feet, stormy hazel eyes fixed at some point on the horizon with a hardened glare.

 

“Hey,” Wanda urged gently, nudging his muscled arm as they walked, gravel crunching beneath the soles of their shoes on every stride. “What is with you right now? You seem off.”

 

Pietro turned his head sharply at that, eyes locking on hers for a moment before returning his gaze off into the distance. “I are fine,” he replied unconvincingly, his thin lips pressed into a hard line. 

 

A red pick-up truck roared past them on the gravel road, leaving the pungent smell of burning gasoline in its wake. Wanda wrinkled her nose at that but remained silent, waiting with bated breath for Pietro to say more. 

 

He didn’t. 

 

“You are not. You are agitated,” she argued then, not understanding why he wouldn’t just _tell_ her.

 

Pietro abruptly stopped walking then, the sudden movement kicking up a small cloud of dust around his sneakers. 

 

Wanda went along for a good two or three more paces before belatedly realizing her twin wasn’t at her side, a flash of panic making her heart skip a beat as she whirled frantically around, fearing the worst. She was halfway to the edge of utter hysteria when she caught sight of him standing just behind her with an unreadable gaze. 

 

She let a frustrated huff of breath escape her. “Do not _do_ that, Pietro, you _scared_ me—“

 

“Did you look in my head just now?” He questioned her in an indubitably accusatory tone, hazel gaze narrowing suspiciously at her. 

 

“W-What?” Wanda sputtered incredulously—she knew never to do that to him, not after escaping the snake people… not unless it was truly unavoidable. “No, I—” she paused herself, then furrowed her brow. “Why?”

 

Still, Pietro’s gaze remained hard as as he searched his sister’s face for a hint of dishonesty; eventually, apparently having come up empty, he averted his gaze to stare uncomfortably at the foot-long stretch of roadside dirt between them. “Sorry,” he mumbled sincerely, a slight blush spreading across his angular cheekbones. “‘M sorry.”

 

“It is okay,” Wanda said back without hesitation, watching the anxious form of her brother with overwhelming concern and the barest hint of burning curiosity. “I just… Talk to me? Please?”

 

She watched as Pietro let out a heavy sigh, one hand coming up to scratch at the mess of bed-head on his scalp. 

 

It was silent for a moment. 

 

“Do you remember the name Howard Stark?” he asked finally, his hazel eyes sparkling with a bitter kind of sadness Wanda knew well— _too_ well. 

 

(She was quite sure that most days, that same anguished sorrow was reflected all too vividly upon her own features.)

 

This wasn’t going to be good. 

 

Wanda thought for a moment, knowing the name sounded familiar but not quite being able to—oh. Oh, _shit_. “‘Stark'…” she sounded the name out slowly. “As in Stark Industries, the company that built Mother and Father's apartment?” she questioned, looking to Pietro for confirmation. 

 

He just nodded solemnly—another bad sign. 

 

(Pietro could never be described as ‘solemn,’ cracking jokes even at the most inappropriate of times—only the years spent in Sokovia had been enough to extinguish that. 

 

Only Sokovia could scare him back into the weary and jaded person standing before her.)

 

Yes, this was most certainly going somewhere bad. 

 

“Remember when were back home last month… we got pinned down in that government building?”

 

Wanda nodded numbly, remembering their desperate attempts to lock all the doors and close the blinds as explosions and gunfire raged outside all the while. 

 

“The snake men were shooting at us,” she offered numbly as the memories raged vividly within her brain. 

 

Pietro’s eyes were distant. "You were trying to hold the doors—” Wanda remembered that vividly, remembered metal desks and beams bending to her will in swirls of glowing red as she willed them to cover the bullet-riddled wooden doors of the building as quickly and as forcefully as she could manage, “—and I was casing the building looking for weapons and exits to lock—the building was _huge_ ,” Wanda watched her brother carefully as he let out a shaky breath. “But then—then I saw something and stopped… it was the office for the man in charge of the Housing and Urban Construction Department. I checked back on you, and you looked like you were okay, so I went inside. I scanned through files for our sector, and I found the report saying the CEO of Stark Industries Howard Stark _knew_ —“

 

“That Howard Stark knew the materials were faulty and prone to collapse, but went ahead and OK'ed the construction for our apartment complex anyways—yes, you’ve told me this,” Wanda finished for him, quickly growing impatient, memories of their past beginning to resurface with painful clarity. 

 

Her twin’s brow furrowed, features creased in visible annoyance, but he continued all the same: “Then, I saw something in the files about the accident… Because yes, Howard Stark was the vote that mattered most, but the CFO’s vote was a close second. If the CFO voted against it, the project would not be approved.”

 

Wanda tilted her head in askance. “Who is the CFO?” 

 

“It is supposed to be Howard’s wife, Maria,” Pietro said with anger rising in his tone, blue energy glowing from his palms as his hands shook inhumanly fast at his sides. “But she was in the hospital after a minor car accident, and the proxy is their son, Tony. He voted in her place to approve the project.”

 

“And why do we care about Howard Stark’s son?” Wanda asked tentatively, biting her lip as she processed the new information. 

 

“I did not either, at first,” Pietro replied absentmindedly, clearly preoccupied with something greater. (Wanda longed to know what was bothering him.) “But, I saw a newspaper article a week ago—“

 

Wanda snorted. “I know for a _fact_ that you do not read anything, let alone the newspaper.”

 

Pietro just rolled his eyes, his lips quirking good-naturedly at his sister’s quip. “I only picked it up off the ground because it had Howard Stark’s face on it,” he explained, his expression again turning somber. “It was about some science project his genius 17-year-old child Tony won a substantial prize for. Would you like to guess where Tony goes to school?” Pietro’s words were bitter, laced with a jarring kind of venom that left a sour taste in Wanda’s mouth.

 

Realization dawned on Wanda then, hitting her like a sucker punch to the gut, and for a moment she felt like she might faint as a barrage of emotions hit her. “Tesseract High,” she whispered, voice cracking on the final syllable. 

 

They were both silent for a long moment, Pietro eyeing his sister nervously as she struggled to process the absolute _bomb_ (there wasn’t a better word for it, she thought) her twin had just dropped on her. 

 

“I’m sorry I did not tell you,” Pietro broke the long pause, looking down at his sister with pleading eyes. “I just—I wanted to check things out for myself to make sure I was not worrying you for nothing, like maybe Tony had transferred or something since then, or maybe the newspaper got its facts wrong,” he moved carefully closer to Wanda and reached for her slightly shaking hands, letting out a breath of relief when she allowed him to tangle her smaller fingers in his. “I am sorry,” he repeated gently, stroking his calloused thumbs over her pale skin.

 

Wanda was silent for a moment, thoughts still racing, but she eventually conceded a nod, darting her eyes up to meet her brother's apologetic gaze. “It is okay,” she assured him quietly, squeezing his hands lightly to emphasize her point. “It is just… We only have each other, and I do not want to keep secrets. I… do not want to lose you.”

 

Her twin’s hands detached from hers, instead coming up to rest on either side of her neck—it was warm, Pietro's familiar touch against her skin. Safe. 

 

“You won’t,” he insisted firmly, those lurid hazel eyes glinting with steely determination. “No more secrets.” 

 

A hesitant smile began to spread across Wanda’s features, then grew wider at the utter sincerity she saw in Pietro’s face. “No more secrets,” she repeated.

 

Then Pietro’s strong arms were enveloping her in an embrace—she hugged him fiercely back, mumbling a soft “Love you” into his shoulder and feeling a wave of contentment wash over her when he instantaneously whispered it back.

 

Eventually they parted, wordlessly allowing the moment to pass as they resumed their walk side-by-side passing various generic-looking buildings, inching closer and closer to Tesseract. 

 

“We are going to miss all of first period, you know, thanks to you,” Wanda quipped after a few minutes of comfortable silence, quirking a playful brow at her brother as a man on a bright green Moped zoomed past. 

 

Pietro just rolled his eyes, barely sparing her a moment’s glance. 

 

“You know, I _did_ offer to run us over,” he said cheekily. “Do you know how long that would take? Two seconds, probably,” he said, not waiting for Wanda to answer. “Maybe three if we consider how _early_ it is.”

 

“It is 8:00am,” Wanda countered monotonously, the ghost of a playful smirk tracing her features.

 

Pietro nodded in mock solemnity. “Exactly.” 

 

Wanda sighed, shaking her head affectionately. “Just keep walking, asshole.” 

 

She didn’t look over when Pietro snickered, a genuine smile spreading across her face at the sound. 

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

It was 8:43am by the time the twins found themselves climbing the stone steps of Tesseract High, the shrill sound of a bell announcing the end of first period as they entered the rapidly filling hallway. 

 

Wanda elbowed Pietro, shooting him an admittedly half-hearted but altogether disapproving look. “Told you.” 

 

He made a mocking face back at her. “I had Chemistry first, so really, I have done myself a service here.” 

 

“I had Creative Non-Fiction, and I _like_ writing, so shut it,” she hissed back, though there was no venom behind it. 

 

Pietro just shrugged, both twins falling silent as they observed the hordes of American students milling through the hallway, chattering loudly to each other as lockers slammed and cell phones buzzed. 

 

Wanda couldn’t stop herself from searching the crowd for one Tony Stark (she didn’t know his face as her brother did, but assumed the boy would look much like his father), knowing instinctively that Pietro was doing the same besides her. 

 

They were pulled out of their respective inspections as the bell rang again to signal the five-minute warning before second period, the shrill sound causing them both to flinch violently. 

 

Pietro leaned closer to ask, “What is your second class?” 

 

“Um,” Wanda hummed, fumbling to slide the phone they shared from the back pocket of her tight black jeans. Unlocking it with a quick finger print scan, she pulled up the screenshots she’d taken of both their schedules with nimble fingers. “I have Science Fiction in room 301, and you… you have African-American Literature in 234.”

 

A confused look spread across the blonde boy's face. “Since when is that a standard high school course?” 

 

Wanda just shrugged. “When I signed you up, the website said it was a required credit,” she responded simply. “I think I have it tomorrow in the morning." 

 

Pietro huffed out an exasperated sigh. “This place is very strange."

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

Pietro had insisted on walking Wanda to her Science Fiction class despite her protests that his class wasn’t even near hers (he’d have to cross campus to a separate building to reach it)—he just ignored her, adjusting the straps of his dark blue backpack on his shoulders and walked beside her until they reached the open door of room 301 with a black rectangular sign just next to the doorframe that read ‘Mr. Phillip Coulson, 11th & 12th grade teacher’ in neat grey font.

 

Wanda could feel multiple pairs of eyes upon her as some of the other kids inside the classroom craned their necks not-so-subtly to take a look at her and Pietro, clearly wondering who the _hell_ they were (it was a fairly small school; around 200 kids in each grade—everyone knew _everyone_ ) as her twin leaned to place a gentle kiss on her forehead, telling her in no uncertain terms that he’d meet her there afterwards before swiftly turning on his heel to walk off in search of his African-American Literature class. 

 

Wanda sighed as she watched Pietro exit down the hall and out the double-doorway, rays of sunlight filtering briefly in before the door shut loudly behind him. She could still feel the gazes of her soon-to-be classmates positively burning a hole through her, and God if that didn’t make her feel sick to her stomach. 

 

Still, she knew it was unavoidable, knew that there wasn’t another option; steeling herself, she took a deep breath, resisting the urge to fiddle with the burgundy straps of her backpack as she bit the proverbial goddamned bullet and entered the room.

 

The stream of chatter died down noticeably as Wanda walked through the doorway, the class clearly intrigued by a new face so late in the semester. Wanda just kept her gaze resolutely downcast and tried to ignore the flaming blush in her cheeks as she approached a middle-aged man sitting comfortably at the large wooden desk in the corner of the room. 

 

Her eyes darted up to meet her new teacher’s for a quick moment—he looked to be a kind man (though Wanda knew better than most that you could never be sure), with soft brown eyes and a receding hairline bordering neatly-combed hair of the same color, along with a pair of thick black square-shaped glasses perched on his nose. She’d never been good with eye contact, though (at least, not since the snake people), so she averted her gaze to the plaque on his desk that read “Mr. Phil Coulson” in plain white lettering, opting to talk to that instead. 

 

“Hi,” she ventured shyly, still very much set on addressing the unmoving plaque rather than the strange man behind it. “I am Wanda Maximoff, and I am new but I-I believe I am in this class for second period?” She inwardly let out a sigh of relief when she managed to get through all of it without losing her nerve (she was more hyperaware now of her heavy Sokovian accent than ever before), eyeing the plaque with cheeks still tinted pink—the chatter in the room had almost completely stopped, all the students quieting to observe Wanda and Mr. Coulson’s interaction with interest as they whispered fervently amongst themselves (no doubt about her, which didn’t help with Wanda’s rather prominent bout of anxiety).

 

She could hear a smile in the teacher’s soft voice as he spoke back to her. “Yes! It’s so nice to meet you,” he gushed, sounding genuinely pleased even as long-suffering suspicion reared its head in Wanda’s chest at the sound of it. 

 

(People were not just _nice_ like that—she’d learned that lesson the hard way. 

 

Funnily enough, she’d actually grown exponentially more comfortable with the people who didn’t bother to hide their cruelty, because she knew exactly what she was getting with them—there were no surprises. 

 

It was the kind ones that she always had to watch out for, because the surface-level niceties they’d shown to lower her guard always dissolved so quickly before her very eyes, revealing the most dangerous kind of monster beneath.

 

Punches and cattle prods and insults always hurt a hell of a lot worse when you weren’t expecting them.) 

 

Lost in thought, she belatedly realized that Mr. Coulson had held out his hand for her to shake, his covered arm hovering just over the plaque on his desk. Hesitantly, she took it, feeling even more uneasy as his warm and calloused hand grasped hers with a gentle firmness, knowing that before she’d turned 15 she might’ve found such a thing comforting and safe, but now, the apparent harmlessness of it all had her mind positively _screaming_ at her to run as far and as fast as she could.

 

She fought the urge to sigh with relief when Mr. Coulson released her hand from his grip—though, unfortunately, her relief was pitifully short-lived. 

 

“So, how’s your first day so far?” the man asked her in a conversational tone, as if he really gave a shit about some random student he’d just met. She refused to acknowledge the small voice in her head whispering that maybe he did, that maybe this Mr. Coulson was an okay guy, because that voice had done fuck all to help her in the snake people’s cages: providing her with a ridiculously enduring sense of false hope, only to have it crushed time after time as she watched helplessly—that hurt worse than anything else they’d ever done to her. 

 

Eventually, Wanda registered the man still watching her with his deceivingly kind brown eyes, clearly waiting for a response. “It is, um—" she fumbled for the words, eyes darting nervously up to meet his, “—it is okay.”

 

The man just nodded, something like honest understanding showing across his features. “Well, Wanda, I want you to know that I’ll be here if you need anything, even if it’s just to talk,” Mr. Coulson said kindly, head tilted curiously at the girl. 

 

Wanda just nodded, refusing to meet his eyes. “Thank you,” she mumbled. 

 

She felt the teacher watching her for another moment, and fought the nausea gathering in her stomach as she stood before Mr. Coulson’s desk, feeling horribly vulnerable and exposed under his intent gaze. 

 

“There’s an open seat in the second row,” he finally spoke, gesturing to the array of desks behind her. “Seats aren’t assigned, but the students haven’t changed spots since the first week,” he let out a small chuckle, “so I suppose that’ll be your desk for the rest of the semester. Sound okay?”

 

Wanda nodded demurely once more, quietly muttering her thanks to Mr. Coulson as she turned with eyes resolutely cast downward to make her way towards the empty seat in the second row. She chanced a quick glance at the goofy-looking boy with blue eyes and a short mess of dirty-blonde hair to her left as she slid carefully into her seat, along with a pale-skinned lanky blonde boy with a buzzcut and almost robotically-perfect posture to her right. 

 

She jumped when the pale boy on her right spoke. “Hello,” he said, his voice stilted and almost inhumanly neutral. “I am Vision, but many people just call me Vis.” He was looking at her with a thoughtful but curious blue-eyed gaze, and Wanda couldn’t help but feel ridiculously uncomfortable as he stared. 

 

Then she heard the boy from her left snort loudly, saying, “Vis, buddy, I think you’re scaring the poor girl,” he chuckled as Wanda turned to eye the dirty-blonde haired boy who’d spoken on her other side, the muscles in his tanned arms jumping as he fiddled agitatedly with a No. 2 pencil. “You sound like one of those androids from Star Wars, all ‘These are not the droids you’re looking for,’” the boy did his best imitation of Obi-Wan (which wasn’t all that great), his face scrunched up in adorable concentration. “I’m Clint, by the way,” he told her abruptly then, expression clearing as he nodded kindly at Wanda. 

 

“Wanda,” she greeted quietly back by way of introduction, her eyes darting briefly up to meet Clint’s.

 

It was then, in a silent observation of the fidgety boy, that she noticed a series of long white scars (probably from a knife, Wanda thought) at various angles littering both of Clint’s toned arms, far too many and far too deep to be simple accidents. They didn’t look to be self-inflicted, either. 

 

The boy seemed perfectly at ease, though, happily humming something to himself as he fidgeted mindlessly, either not having noticed her observing the pale marks on his skin, or just not caring—it made Wanda think of the countless marks that littered her own skin, the primary reason she wore long sleeves and pants on even the hottest of days (Pietro did much the same). It made Wanda wonder if she could ever be brave like him, content enough with herself to go out into the world wearing the clothes she used to, every blemish and wound on display for the world to see. 

 

She decided then that she liked Clint. 

 

“I am sorry if I have made you uncomfortable,” she heard Vision say from behind her, and she whipped around to face the pale blonde-haired boy, an earnest expression on his solemn face. “It was not my intention to do so.” 

 

Wanda found herself giggling before she could stop it at his borderline ridiculous use of formalities—Clint was right; he really did sound more android than human. 

 

“It is okay,” she assured him softly, allowing her lips to quirk into a small smile to show the boy she meant it—and strangely enough, she found that she truly did. 

 

“First day?” Clint asked then, eyebrows raised. 

 

Wanda nodded shyly.

 

“That’s tough,” Clint replied, looking genuinely empathetic. “Hey, if you don’t have anyone to sit with at lunch, you can always sit with me and Vis and the rest of the guys.” 

 

Wanda’s stomach lurched when Clint said ‘the rest of the guys,’ because no way in _hell_ was she going to subject herself to the judgements of this boy’s entire friend group over lunch, no matter how nice he seemed—that was just asking for trouble. 

 

Wanda didn’t say any of that, though, just nodded back with a slightly pained smile. “Thanks.” 

 

Clint smiled brightly at her, looking by all accounts rather pleased with himself. 

 

“Alright, let’s settle down, everyone,” announced Mr. Coulson, shuffling out from behind his desk to stand in front of the entire class with a pleasant expression upon his aged features. “Now, I hope everyone did last night’s Tolkien reading—exciting stuff, right?”

 

Wanda sighed at the man’s enthusiasm, wondering briefly if Pietro was faring any better in his African-American Literature course as she slumped further into her seat.

 

It was going to be a long day.

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dude i want the maximoff twins to be my friENDS OK


	2. what the hell is a sine? (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda meets Natasha. (Hint: it's gay)
> 
> Also, Wanda would really like to wipe the shit-eating grin off Pietro's face, preferably by hex blasting him into space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new update:)

Pietro was as good as his word, and had been waiting outside the door for her as the bell rung and the rest of her classmates filed excitedly out into the halls. 

 

When she asked if he’d spoken to anyone interesting in his African-American Literature course, Pietro just shrugged in lieu of a verbal response, looking rather distracted (and the tiniest bit unnerved). She didn’t press the issue. 

 

They walked in comfortable silence beside each other until the bell rang, and Pietro insisted on again walking her to her next and last block before lunch—PreCalculus. She knew Pietro had it later in the day, too, and neither of them were much looking forward to it: they had only taken basic maths in Sokovia before the snake people got a hold of them, and with their parents’ death in addition to their desperate flee to search for a new home in America afterwards… well, Algebra and PreCalc weren’t exactly among their top priorities. 

 

After Pietro had run off to try and catch his Sound Design class before the late bell rung (though not before placing another hasty kiss gently upon her forehead), Wanda hesitantly entered the PreCalculus classroom, a bundle of nerves twisting painfully in her stomach. She’d read the sign outside (identical to the one displayed just outside Mr. Coulson’s classroom) and had been relieved, though, to see a woman’s name printed neatly across, one ‘Ms. Jemma Simmons, 12th grade teacher.’ 

 

(She’d come to understand that when shady shit and cruelty towards children was involved, the majority of the perpetrators were most always men. It had been exceedingly rare to see a female snake person walking past her cage back in Sokovia, or to have a woman beating her further into the floor for her disobedience as she sobbed.

 

No, it was most always the men brutalizing her and Pietro—what’s more, many of them seemed to enjoy it.)

 

Once inside, she forced herself to repeat the process from last period: approach the instructor’s desk in the corner of the room and introduce herself, preferably without saying something embarrassing. (Or stuttering. She _hated_ hearing herself stutter.) 

 

She found it easier to look this woman in the eye, though—she was much younger than Wanda might have expected of a school teacher (maybe in her mid-20s) with light brown shoulder-length hair and a bright smile across her features. 

 

“Hello,” Wanda greeted nervously, palms growing damp with sweat. “I am Wanda Maximoff, and I believe I am in this class for third period?” Again, she took a moment to curse her thick accent as the young woman tilted her head and eyed her up and down, clearly intrigued. 

 

“Ah, yes! Welcome!” the woman—Ms. Simmons, Wanda corrected herself—said brightly, and Wanda was suddenly struck by something like awe as she registered the woman’s pronounced British accent. Suddenly, she didn’t feel like such an outsider with her thick and so obviously un-American syntax. “I don’t want to pry, but might I inquire about your accent? It’s lovely,” the woman questioned, brown eyes wide with something that appeared to be genuine interest.

 

“Uh—” Wanda stuttered, so unused to this woman’s kind and gently inquisitive attitude towards her. “I am from S-Sokovia,” she responded in a reserved tone, feeling rather at a loss as she watched the woman’s eyes light up with vivid excitement, as if Wanda had just told her something particularly compelling.

 

“ _Fascinating_!” Ms. Simmons exclaimed energetically, the straight-toothed smile on her face stretching more widely than Wanda had initially thought possible. “Ah, apologies,” she amended at Wanda’s slightly uncomfortable expression. “I can get a bit carried away. There’s one more empty seat next to Ms. Romanoff just there,” she said with a slight nod of her head. “We do a lot of things in partners for this class, and she’s to be yours since she’s the only person without one, so maybe you could sit down, get to know each other a bit?” 

 

Wanda turned slightly to survey the four rows of tables (eight total), each seating a pair of uninterested-looking students… except for one in the back left corner, where a pale red-head sat with a bored expression as she scribbled something in the standard lined notebook upon her desk. 

 

“Okay,” Wanda acquiesced bashfully, turning back to face a beaming Ms. Simmons. “Thank you, Ma'am.”

 

She turned to walk down the aisle between the two columns of tables, feeling the curious stares of her classmates upon her as she did. It felt like a miracle as she reached the final row without stumbling over her own feet, the redheaded girl not looking up from her scribbles when Wanda took the empty seat just next to hers. 

 

Wanda watched her soon-to-be partner carefully, not wanting to be caught staring but curious all the same as the girl continued writing in her notebook with a bright red pen, the page nearly filled with neat paragraphs of flowing red ink. 

 

She wore multiple bracelets on both wrists, Wanda noted absentmindedly, but they’d slid up on one arm to reveal thick scarring encircling her pale wrist ( _Like she’d been handcuffed for a very long time_ , Wanda thought). 

 

In light of her newest revelation, Wanda watched the girl more intently as she scribbled, a plethora of questions flooding through her mind. Eventually, the girl stilled her movements as if she could sense she was being watched, and before Wanda could think to avert her eyes, the girl was lifting her chin up to look right back at her. 

 

Wanda promptly flushed bright red. _Oh, shit._

 

_Her eyes are so green_ , was Wanda’s next thought, her blush deepening as the girl quirked one perfectly manicured eyebrow at her, green-eyed gaze indubitably expectant. 

 

“I-I am sorry,” Wanda managed to choke out after a long protracted moment. “I did not mean to stare.”

 

The girl just chuckled, low and husky, dimples appearing below angular cheekbones. “It’s okay; I don’t mind,” she drawled, low and bemused. “I’m Natasha.”

 

Then the beautiful girl— _Natasha_ , Wanda’s brain corrected—was looking at her like with raised eyebrows; it belatedly hit Wanda that she was waiting for Wanda to introduce herself as well. “I’m Wanda,” she introduced herself quietly, a palpable wave of relief washing over her when she managed to refrain from stuttering. 

 

A smile quirked at the corner of Natasha’s full lips. “That’s a lovely name,” she replied eventually, green eyes sparkling, and holy _shit_ , Wanda was just about ready to pass out.

 

“U-Uh, thank you,” she mumbled back, nervously fiddling with the silver rings on her fingers. 

 

Natasha’s smirk just widened, and Wanda couldn’t help but think, _God, she’s gorgeous_. 

 

She didn’t think it was an exaggeration to say that PreCalculus just might kill her, not when Natasha was looking at her like _that_ and saying her name was ‘lovely’ and making Wanda want to know everything she possibly could about the other girl after one measly interaction. 

 

A moment later, Ms. Simmons was getting up to start the class and announcing something about natural limits in her delightful British accent, but Wanda couldn’t have cared less, her gaze still caught on the beautiful redheaded girl next to her who, thankfully, had turned her attention to the board and therefore was none the wiser as Wanda stared helplessly.

 

_I’m so screwed_ , she thought. 

 

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Unfortunately, Natasha was, in addition to being incredibly beautiful, also exceptionally attentive—she could see quite clearly how Wanda struggled heavily with most PreCalculus problems, and when confronted with others just stared blankly as if she hadn’t the faintest clue of where to start—which, admittedly, was fairly spot-on, as competency assessments go.

 

But Wanda had expected this; she’d expected to feel utterly lost and vaguely overwhelmed, especially when considering that the last time she and Pietro had taken math was 8th grade in their run-down charter school back in Sokovia, where their sleazy quote-unquote “teacher" had spent far more time ogling Wanda and the rest of his female students than he did actually trying to teach them anything of substance.

 

So fine, she didn’t have the foggiest idea about what Trigonometry and Geometry and sines and tangents had to do with math (or what they even _were_ ), not to mention the fact that she’d already resigned herself to spending considerable amounts of time at the public library a few blocks south after school to catch her and Pietro up on everything they’d been missing in their primary education up until now—which was a _lot_. She supposed that this glaring lack of knowledge in mathematics just meant she’d have to be there a little longer each night than she’d originally planned.

 

Natasha, though, had something different in mind. After class had ended, the corresponding bell ringing shrilly from the halls, Natasha stopped Wanda with a gentle hand on her arm—and suddenly, Wanda couldn’t have cared less about being late to greet her twin who was probably waiting for her just outside the classroom, her arm burning with the memory of Natasha’s touch, because _Oh my God the beautiful girl with green eyes and perfect auburn hair wants to talk to me_.

 

“Wanda, hey,” Natasha had said as she slung her black backpack over one shoulder, a new sort of nervousness spreading across the redhead’s features that piqued Wanda’s interest with almost pitiful ease. “If you want we could, like, meet up later and do the homework together?”

 

Wanda merely gaped back at her, completely floored at the prospect of someone (much less _Natasha_ ) actually wanting help her—she couldn’t for the life of her think what, if anything, Natasha could possibly want from her in return. 

 

“A-Are you _sure?_ ” Wanda questioned, eyes wide. Natasha’s brow furrowed at that, and Wanda rushed to explain, practically stumbling over her words in her haste. “It is just—I am s-sure you have realized that I do not know very much about math or PreCalculus, and I never learned Trigonometry or anything like this, and it is just that you seem very i-intelligent and I am—I am _not_ and I-I do not want you to think that you are somehow obligated to help me just because I am your _partner_ —“

 

She cut herself off abruptly at Natasha’s raised brow, flushing deeply as the delayed realization hit her that she had, in fact, been rambling… and, doing so in rather spastic fashion, at that.

 

“I’m sorry,” Wanda apologized then, eyes downcast, fully convinced she’d just gone and blown any chance she’d had to even be friends with this girl.

 

“Wanda, you have nothing to apologize for,” Natasha reassured her genuinely, letting out a low chuckle. “I thought your rambling was cute.” 

 

“Huh?” she said eloquently, because holy _shit_ , had Natasha really just called her _’cute’?_

 

Natasha’s grin widened. “So, about the homework….” she persisted, emerald-green eyes twinkling. “I’m serious about us doing it together—and besides, we’re partners. We can get to know each other better.” 

 

“Uh,” Wanda said, her mind still moving at a painstakingly slow pace. “Yes!” she managed to blurt out, the words finally coming to her. “Yes, I… I would like that. A lot.” _Stop talking now_ , her brain pleaded. 

 

“Meet me back here at 3?” Natasha asked with an affectionate wink, causing Wanda’s heart to stutter in her chest. 

 

The brunette girl found herself mutely nodding, completely unable to form words as the redheaded girl turned on her heel to swiftly exit the classroom, throwing a playful “See you then!” over her shoulder as she disappeared through the doorway. 

 

(And no, Wanda most certainly did not let her eyes roam to take in how good Natasha’s butt looked in those tight dark blue jeans as she strutted off, or the stray lock of copper-colored hair forming a perfect curl at the base of her ponytail that bounced with every step she took… no, of course not.)

 

It wasn’t until much later that she registered a smirking Pietro leaning against the doorframe, and Ms. Simmons sitting at her desk with a shy but knowing smile cast in Wanda’s direction— _Splendid_ , she thought, _not just one, but_ two _witnesses that saw me deteriorate into a useless gay puddle of goo in front of the prettiest girl I’ve ever met. Absolutely perfect_. 

 

Clutching anxiously at the straps of her backpack and pointedly ignoring the maddening blush spread across her cheeks, she quietly thanked Ms. Simmons without meeting her eyes before approaching her twin where he stood smugly in the doorway. 

 

“Don’t you dare,” she growled, before he could open his mouth to say anything, then promptly stormed off down the hallways and in the general direction of the cafeteria, leaving a snickering Pietro in her wake. 

 

Eventually, her twin caught up with her in the halls, not even bothering to hide the shit-eating grin on his face.

 

“So... ” he began slyly as they walked, even as Wanda glared back at him in a deadly warning. “Meet anyone interesting?”

 

She’d never wanted to use her powers and hex blast her twin into the stratosphere so badly. 

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love the maximoff twins a lot


	3. maybe hope isn't such a bad thing, after all (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pietro and Wanda meet the some new people!
> 
> Pietro eats a lot, and Wanda's super gay for Natasha....
> 
> Also, Clint has a bad habit of talking with his mouth full.

“Oh!” Pietro exclaimed suddenly as they turned the corner, the bustling chatter from the lunch room up ahead increasing steadily in volume as they approached. “I made a friend in Sound Design." 

 

Wanda cocked a brow. “Oh?”

 

“His name is Clint,” Pietro informed her with a grin, clearly pleased with himself. “He said I that could sit with him at lunch, and I kind of want to, but I will only do it if you are comfortable coming too.”

 

Wanda nodded, allowing her lips to twitch with a brief show of recognition as her twin eyed her nervously (she was undoubtedly the more introverted of the two). 

 

“Does this ‘Clint’ have brown-blonde hair and blue eyes?” she asked, remembering the enthusiastic boy she’d met earlier in Mr. Coulson’s class.

 

Pietro nodded excitedly, recognition dawning on his face. “You know him too?”

 

“He is in my Science Fiction class,” she replied. “I like him. He seems nice.” 

 

Pietro was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, excitement flaring in his hazel eyes. “So, we can sit with him?” 

 

Wanda sighed, still nervous to socialize with such a large group of Clint’s buddies (all probably as loud and talkative as he was—if not more so), but grinned wryly at her clearly excited brother. “Sure.” 

 

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Almost immediately after the twins had grabbed their lunches (Wanda instinctively giving Pietro one of her pizza slices, knowing very well how much he had to eat to maintain his energy), they were hailed by a broadly grinning Clint waving a tanned arm from a well-populated table off to the side of the crowded cafeteria, gesturing eagerly for them to join.

 

Wanda let out another sigh, steeling herself for what was about to come, but didn’t resist as Pietro eagerly gripped her slightly shaking hand in his and led her over. 

 

There was just enough room for both twins at the round table, unfortunately not side-by-side, which made Wanda nervous. She watched as a grinning Pietro took a seat between Clint and another Caucasian boy with curly dark locks of hair and a slightly sad look about him—her heart just about stopped in her chest when she saw none other than Natasha sitting a few seats down from Clint, flexing a crooked finger towards Wanda in a _“Come hither”_ motion for her to sit in the open seat beside her. Blushing furiously, she complied, smiling shyly at Natasha as she sat down. 

 

There was another slim girl on Wanda’s other side; she had intense and steely blue eyes, her dark brown hair done up in a no-nonsense bun, both combining to have a very intimidating effect. Wanda did her best to not encroach on her space, feeling like she might just be met with a swift right hook to the jaw if she dared to piss the fierce-looking girl off. 

 

Shuddering almost imperceptibly in place, she turned her attention across the table to see Vis sitting on Clint’s other side, who gave her a sharp but welcoming nod. She smiled cautiously back at him, the scary girl next to her forgotten for the moment; strangely enough, Wanda was beginning to take a unique sort of comfort in Vis's awkward and robot-like demeanor. It felt like… friendship, almost. (Maybe.)

 

“Who’s this guy?” Natasha asked conversationally around a bite of cheese pizza, nodding her head towards Pietro. 

 

“This,” Clint announced, clapping a hand on her twin’s back and grinning widely, “is Pietro.” 

 

Pietro just beamed with Clint’s arm around him, prompting Wanda to roll her eyes in exasperation, because jeez, when did those two get so buddy-buddy?

 

“He’s my twin,” Wanda explained dryly to the redhead girl beside her, feeling a thrill run down her spine when Natasha turned to gaze back at her with interest. 

 

“I didn’t know you had a twin,” she mused offhandedly, her emerald-green eyes boring into Wanda’s. 

 

Wanda shrugged, enjoying Natasha’s attentions upon her (though the rest of the table’s, not so much). “You never asked,” she quipped easily, nibbling at the plain slice of wheat bread she’d snatched from the salad bar. 

 

It was strange, Wanda thought, that she was beginning to find her confidence so quickly around the redheaded girl. Maybe it was just that Pietro was there, too; knowing he was safe and there with her always did a great deal to quell her anxiety… _But maybe_ , a voice in her head whispered, _maybe it’s Natasha and her beautiful green eyes and hypnotizing red lips and_ —

 

“Oh, right! You're in my Sci-Fi class!” exclaimed a dark-haired Asian girl sitting on the other side of the intense blue-eyed girl on Wanda’s right, successfully interrupting her Natasha-centered thoughts. Wanda just looked at her curiously, amused by her lively spirit but not quite able to place.... “Oh!” the girl remarked, a charming grin spreading across her dimpled cheeks, “I’m Daisy. Daisy Johnson.” 

 

Wanda smiled genuinely, which, admittedly, was quite a rare occurrence when it wasn’t just her and Pietro—but, she found that she really liked these people… or, at least, she liked how they were kind to her, how they seemed to accept her without giving it a second thought. 

 

“I am Wanda,” she obliged her, deciding to imitate the other girl’s introduction. “Wanda Maximoff.” 

 

“Oooooh,” Daisy purred with a sparkle in her dark brown eyes, wiggling her eyebrows. “That’s such a cool last name! Plus, it’s a lot like Natasha’s.”

 

Wanda turned to look curiously at Natasha then, not quite remembering the girl’s last name. The redhead just shrugged at her, something playful twinkling in her gaze. 

 

“Romanoff,” Daisy supplied then, seeing Wanda’s confusion. 

 

“I wish I had a cool last name,” Clint lamented in a muffled voice from across the table, his mouth full of pizza as his cheeks bulged. “Mine’s just Barton.” A few chunks of chewed up dough flew to land in the center of the table. “And—“

 

“Clint, I love you, but if you don’t close your mouth and swallow, I will not hesitate to castrate you,” Natasha deadpanned, fixing a suddenly wide-eyed Clint with a pointed look as he gulped loudly. 

 

Wanda attempted to stifle her laugh but didn’t quite succeed, a strangled sound escaping her throat. Natasha’s green eyes flitted to her briefly, a pleased smirk spread across the redhead's face.

 

Daisy, for her part, was looking rapidly back and forth between Clint and Natasha as if watching a particularly compelling tennis match. “Okay, is _no one_ gonna acknowledge the fact that Romanoff really just ordered Clint to ‘close your mouth and swallow’? Because—“

 

The scary blue-eyed girl on Wanda’s right heaved an exasperated sigh, cutting in with an exasperated, “You really don’t ever miss your chance to turn things sexual, do you?”

 

Daisy just grinned, apparently undeterred. “Oh come on, Maria, that was _priceless_.”

 

_Ah, so the scary girl's name is Maria_ , Wanda thought. It didn’t seem all that fitting, but she supposed she was not in any position to be judging.

 

“And,” Clint piped up, having finally swallowed the mass of dough in his mouth. “it held an important message that I think everyone here should venture to learn,” he paused for a moment, locking eyes with a wickedly grinning Daisy across the table as they each took a deep breath and cheered in obnoxious unison: “Spitters. Are. Quitters!” 

 

Everyone cringed at that, especially as a couple heads from neighboring cafeteria tables turned to look strangely at them in response.

 

“We were doing so well,” came a weary mumble from the curly-haired and bespectacled boy on Pietro’s right. “And, now? Now, my appetite’s gone.” 

 

Clint just chuckled, reaching around Pietro to pat the boy good-naturedly on the back (he was wearing a wrinkled blue button-down shirt with long sleeves, Wanda noticed—an interesting stylistic choice for a high school student). 

 

“It’s okay, Brucey,” the blue-eyed boy cooed playfully. “Just think about quantum physics.”

 

Bruce just rolled his eyes, but didn’t seem to be truly upset with Clint—and, as Wanda looked around, she noticed that that seemed to be something of a theme within this group: they rankled and agitated each other to absolutely no end, but they loved each other like family. 

 

It made Wanda wonder why they’d bothered to invite her and Pietro to come join them for lunch, because if they'd already found their ‘people,’ what was the point of risking that dynamic for a pair of kids they’d only just met? Not that Wanda wasn’t grateful, of course—these people seemed genuinely good: the kind of friends Wanda always wished she’d had, even as Wanda knew they would never want to be that for her. 

 

“Hey,” she felt a soft nudge as Natasha turned to look at her, concern sparkling in her mesmerizing green eyes. (She was a few inches taller than the redheaded girl, she’d noticed. She decided she liked that.) “You okay?” 

 

Wanda nodded hastily, startled that Natasha had noticed her space out even as the chatter at the table continued—well, not only that, but startled also that the redheaded girl had cared enough to comment on it once she’d noticed.

 

“Just thinking,” Wanda responded, looking into Natasha's worried gaze with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, it is a bad habit of mine… Pietro says I should not space out so much.” 

 

A beautifully kind grin dimpled Natasha’s cheeks in response as she eyed the Sokovian girl, and Wanda felt her heart flutter in her chest again. 

 

“You’re allowed to ignore the rest of us and think for as long as you want, Wanda. Just because we decided to drag you into our crazy, definitely doesn’t mean you have to invest in it,” Natasha stated, letting out a light chuckle. “You know, you apologize a lot.”

 

“Sorr—" Wanda began but stopped herself short rather abruptly, cheeks flaming even as Natasha quirked an amused brow at her. “It’s, um… another bad habit of mine, I suppose,” she amended shyly, ducking her head. 

 

Natasha just hummed in reply. “So, are we still on for after school?” she moved swiftly on, genuine curiosity in her eyes despite them having just planned it not 20 minutes earlier at their shared desk in PreCalculus—Wanda was glad for that, though; it made her feel like maybe she wasn’t a burden to Natasha, that maybe the girl actually liked being in her presence… but then again, she did not want to get her hopes up.

 

She smiled bashfully at Natasha, allowing a hint of the nerves gathering in her stomach to show upon her features. “If you are still sure about teaching someone who knows literally nothing about math how to do 12th-year PreCalculus, then yes,” she said mirthfully.

 

Natasha just rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure, and that’s a promise,” she replied soothingly as she leaned further into Wanda, and _Wow_ , Wanda kind of wanted to kiss her right then.

 

She shook herself from her daze, mentally scolding herself. _Get it together, Maximoff_. “Is it okay if I bring Pietro along?” she asked instead. “He and I are pretty much on the same very low math competency level.”

 

“Absolutely; we’ll make it a group thing,” Natasha agreed without hesitation, turning to the rest of the table as she announced, “Hey guys, I’m gonna do the PreCalc homework with the twins after school… anyone else wanna join?”

 

“I’m okay, Natasha, thank you,” Vision evenly pronounced in his ever-formal tone from across the table.

 

Bruce mumbled something similar under his breath to politely decline the invitation. 

 

(He was very introverted, Wanda realized—perhaps even more so than she herself was. She found it interesting that he was in the same crowd as Daisy and Clint and Natasha.

 

She tried to fight the spark of hope building in her chest that told her they might accept her into the fold, too, since they clearly didn’t seem to mind Bruce’s preference for quiet and minimal interaction—it was stupid, she knew, but it was there just the same, making her wish for something she knew she’d never have.

 

God, she hated false hope.)

 

“Oh my God, _yes_ ,” Clint said with overly-done theatricality. “I had PreCalc first, and I’ve never been more confused in my _life_.” 

 

Natasha eyed him skeptically. “You say that after every lesson.” 

 

“And it’s always true, isn’t it?”

 

Natasha sighed. “Yeah."

 

“Wait, we’re doing what?” Pietro spoke up with bulging cheeks, his attention finally drawn from the food he was devouring on his tray.

 

Wanda plucked a single wrinkled green pea off her plate, flicking it through the air towards Pietro and fighting the urge to laugh as it hit him squarely between the eyes. Daisy snickered into her milk carton. Bruce just sighed.

 

Ignoring her twin's suddenly indignant expression, Wanda supplied, “PreCalculus homework. I think they will assign it to you later today…. unless you want to figure it out on your own?” she taunted him, a wide grin spreading across her cheeks at his vaguely horrified expression.

 

“Uh, nope, that’s brilliant, sounds good, sis,” he blathered with glazed-over eyes, probably thinking about how little he and Wanda knew about any kind of math that went beyond PEMDAS and basic operations.

 

“Now that that’s settled,” Natasha said, turning back to Wanda. “Do you wanna go somewhere besides here to study? I can drive all of us.”

 

“Aw, Nat, you’re not gonna ask me where _I_ wanna go?” Clint whined from across the table. “Because—“

 

“Zip it, bird boy,” the redhead responded without turning to look at him, her green eyes still focused intently on Wanda as she waited for a response.

 

Wanda grinned at Natasha and Clint’s sibling-like interaction, saying, “Wherever Clint wants to go is fine with me” and trying not to giggle as the blue-eyed boy pumped his fist enthusiastically in response. 

 

“Did’ya hear that Natasha? Did’ya?” he gushed excitedly, a boyish grin spread across his tanned features.

 

“I think everyone heard that,” Daisy countered dryly. 

 

Natasha just sighed, but (evidently) decided to humor the spirited boy all the same. “Okay, Clint—where would you like to go?” 

 

“Well, Natasha,” he drawled smugly, seemingly impervious to Natasha’s unamused stare (which was quite impressive, Wanda thought). “I’m glad you asked! Can we go to the park?” 

 

“You wanna go to the _park_ to study math?” Daisy asked around a mouthful of food, brows furrowed. 

 

“Johnson, you’re not even going,” he retorted, ignoring as she dramatically rolled her eyes in response. “So, the park?” he asked. “C’mon, guys, we live in _Vermont_. The weather will be perfect, and the sun will be out, and—“

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Natasha hastily cut him off. “Fine: the park it is. As long as the twins are okay with it.”

 

Then, Clint’s pleading gaze was darting from Pietro to Wanda with comical desperation as he waited for their input. 

 

“Of course,” Pietro acquiesced after downing the milk in his carton, earning him another enthusiastic clap on the shoulder from a beaming Clint. 

 

Noticing his empty tray, Wanda slid her carton of milk across the table towards her Pietro, who grabbed it with a grateful look and guzzled it down in record time. 

 

Then, she realized that Clint was aiming his impressive puppy-eyed pout towards her, and she just laughed, saying “Whatever makes you happy” to the sprightly blonde boy. 

 

“ _Hell_ yes, people!” he announced triumphantly, then stopped abruptly, a thoughtful look on his features. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited to do math homework in my _life_ ,” he complained, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “God, who am I becoming?”

 

“A person who actually uses their brain and experiences the incredible phenomenon of critical thought on a daily basis like the rest of society,” Bruce sniped, not looking up from the book he’d begun to read at the table. 

 

The effect was immediate: Daisy burst into laughter and Maria sniggered quietly at her side as Clint sat with his mouth agape; Wanda was giggling, too, unable to stop herself as she caught sight of Pietro doing the same across from her, and Natasha was smirking widely beside her—hell, even Vision was smiling to himself from where he sat between Clint and Bruce.

 

Clint squinted his eyes dramatically at Bruce even as the bespectacled boy remained steadfastly focused on the book in his hands—the only indication that Bruce was aware of what was happening was his pursed lips as he suppressed a grin. “That was—"

 

“Fucking _hilarious_ ,” Daisy interrupted the blonde-haired boy with sheer delight, ignoring Clint’s resulting glare. 

 

Bruce’s lips curved upwards even as he continued scanning his book. 

 

Looking around at the table even as Clint stumbled to find a comeback, Wanda was quite sure she had never smiled this much in such a short span of time—God, it felt good. 

 

And despite her best efforts, she could feel the ember of hope in her chest beginning to steadily grow—the same one that told her maybe she and Pietro could find a home here, even with everything they’d endured in the past four years. And as she caught Natasha’s green-eyed gaze while they shared a laugh at the expense of a sputtering Clint, Wanda felt like maybe, just maybe, that little spark of hope wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

 

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	4. yevgeni romanoff (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda and Natasha talk, one-on-one.... it gets deep. 
> 
> Also, Wanda has a lot of Gay Panic™. It's difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, but I'm trying to do Natasha's POV for the next chapter.... let me know what you think! :)

Wanda endured two more classes after lunch had ended: Chemistry and Physics—though, thankfully for last block, she had a free. She was disappointed to find that Pietro had already had his free just before hers; right now, he was trapped in the dreaded PreCalculus classroom. 

 

Sighing to herself, and having no idea what she was meant to do while she had nowhere to be (she wasn’t quite ready to pull out her textbooks and face the reality of just how fucking _impossible_ Chemistry and Physics and PreCalculus were going to be for both her and Pietro), she was left to wander the relatively empty halls without direction, occasionally reading random papers on the notice boards and various accomplishments of students she didn’t know to pass the time. 

 

Eventually, though, she found herself exiting the building in search of a place to sit comfortably for the next hour, finally settling on a sleek wooden bench in the shade of a beautiful Beech tree near the blessedly empty outdoor basketball courts. _God, this state is wonderful_ , she thought as she eyed the lush greenery around her.

 

Shivering slightly in the windy weather, though, her appreciation was fairly short-lived—she began to bite her lip nervously as she sat, thoughts racing; time alone had never been very good for her. Time alone meant time to think, and thinking meant memories of snake people and collapsed apartment buildings and everything else she and Pietro had tried to leave behind in Sokovia when they’d fled to America. 

 

She let out a slow breath, willing herself to think of something— _anything_ —else. She was so focused on diverting her thoughts elsewhere, on _not_ spiraling into a panic attack before her very first day of school had even finished, she didn’t notice the light footsteps approaching her from the courts, or the gorgeous redheaded figure approaching her from behind. 

 

“You’re on my bench, you know,” a voice called out behind her, causing her to flinch violently as she whipped around in a frantic search to see who'd spoken. She let out a sharp breath of relief when her eyes landed on Natasha, the redhead's easy smile fading as she observed the way Wanda had reacted to her presence. “I-I’m sorry,” Natasha said, suddenly nervous as she looked down and fiddled with her fingers. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Would you like me to go?”

 

“ _No!_ ” Wanda said loudly, then winced at her obvious eagerness. “I mean, no, do not be sorry… I am always kind of jumpy,” she amended, shaking her head ruefully at herself. “Sit with me?” she found herself quietly asking the redheaded girl, despising the vulnerability in her voice as she did.

 

But Natasha just smiled genuinely, eyes sparkling. “Of course,” she acquiesced, coming to sit next to the Wanda. The brunette watched dumbly as Natasha shifted her body on the bench to face her, bracelets again sliding up her forearms as she propped her head up with a dainty hand, resting her bent arm on the back of the bench and fixing Wanda with her breathtaking green-eyed gaze. 

 

_She looks amazing_ , Wanda thought. 

 

“U-Uh,” Wanda stuttered out, mouth agape, suddenly at a loss for what in the world to do while she sat in such ridiculously close proximity to the other girl. _Speak, you imbecile!_ her brain screamed. “U-Um, what did you mean about this being ‘your' bench?” she managed to ask, their faces inches apart. 

 

Natasha’s lip quirked, but it was slightly bitter, something like anger or sadness (or a little bit of both) flitting briefly through her gaze; immediately, Wanda regretted asking. 

 

“I am sorry, that was a dumb question, you don’t have to—“

 

“I was the one who brought it up, wasn’t I?” Natasha pointed out, brow raised. “And I like you; I don’t mind telling you things about me."

 

Wanda blushed but nodded, falling silent. 

 

“I said it was ‘my bench’ because, quite literally, it has my name on the back.. or, at least, my family's,” she explained, giggling as Wanda immediately clambered up onto her knees to peer at the black square-shaped plaque attached to its wooden back with ‘In honor of Yevgeni Romanoff and his family’ in slightly-worn golden lettering. 

 

“Oh,” Wanda said stupidly as she returned herself to a seated position, unable to come up with any other response. 

 

Natasha didn’t seem to mind, though. “The name on the plaque, Yevgeni Romanoff,” she said slowly, pausing for a moment, "he was my father.”

 

Wanda didn’t miss her use of the word “was" rather than “is”—she just eyed the green-eyed girl curiously, nodding her head slightly in understanding. 

 

“Do we hate him?” she found herself asking before she could stop it, because something in Natasha’s eyes was reminding her far too much of the look she and Pietro so often wore when they thought about their own mother and father—and Wanda knew all too well how it felt to have your parents buried six-feet-under while you breathed out a sigh of relief that they where finally gone rather than grieving, even as you felt horribly guilty for doing so.

 

Wanda wanted to laugh with relief when Natasha quirked a smile at her in response, not seeming to be upset by her blunt question. “Yeah, we do,” she said decisively. “He was a bad man,” Natasha paused for a moment then, looking into Wanda’s understanding gaze. “You don’t have to answer this, but… the way you talk… like you've known firsthand what that’s like?”

 

Had anyone else asked Wanda the same question, she might’ve thrown them an impressive string of English and Sokovian profanity and promptly walked off—heaven knows it’d happened before. 

 

But this was Natasha, and somehow, that felt different. The scarring beneath her bracelets, the guarded look in her eyes, the way she included Wanda at every turn without a second thought (not even to _mention_ the crush she’d begun to develop on the redheaded girl)—Wanda wasn’t planning on baring her soul and all her secrets right now by any means, but she also wasn’t going to lie, and it startled her to realize that she really didn’t have to think twice about it. 

 

She didn’t trust Natasha—her trust never came that easily, and she suspected that the other girl’s didn’t either. But to a certain degree, she didn’t find any sort of comfort in being a mystery to Natasha; rather, she was filled with a strange desire to make the other girl _know_ her in a way that no one else but Pietro ever had.

 

It scared her, to say the least, especially as everything within her practically screamed at her to be careful—but she’d always been a slave to her deepest desires; even after the snake people’s cages and her parents' last breaths, that hadn’t changed. 

 

“Pietro and I… we did not have the best parents. Our mom was the better of them, but she managed to hurt us in her own way,” she paused for a moment, thoughtfully gazing off into the distance, before consciously shifting her focus back to Natasha. “We were poor back home, and it was getting worse—we were slowly starving. When Pietro and I were 15, they offered us up for the human trials of illegal and invasive experiments in return for a neat sum of cash from this big conglomeration. It did not end well,” she bit her lip hard, feeling the magnitude of sheer _emotion_ threatening to overtake her. "We got out eventually, but one year later, our parents died when our apartment building collapsed on them.” 

 

“Shit,” Natasha responded, brow furrowed. 

 

(She didn’t look nearly as floored as the majority of people who’d heard that story, though, people who had significant trouble with comprehending that the world could be so fucking _cruel_ ; Natasha's reaction only served to confirm Wanda’s suspicion that Natasha had also been through some truly horrible things… just like her.)

 

A small grin pulled at the edge of Wanda’s lips. “So, yes. I guess you could say that I do know some things about dead parents who were not very good parents in life.” 

 

“It’s probably not fair of me to say, but I’m glad your parents are dead,” Natasha spoke softly, an unreadable expression on her face that didn’t quite match the steel beneath her words. "If they weren’t, I would want to kill them myself.”

 

(The way Natasha responded only fortified Wanda’s suspicions about the girl—and her chest ached at knowing Natasha had gone through things that were just as horrific as she had, if not worse.)

 

“I do not mind you saying that,” Wanda responded gently. “Would you mind me saying the same about your father?”

 

Natasha chuckled. “I wouldn’t mind that at all, Maximoff.” 

 

“Then I am glad he’s dead, because if he were not, I would hunt him down and kill him myself for daring to hurt you,” Wanda found herself saying without a trace of humor, immediately worried she’d said too much as a look of shock flitted briefly across Natasha’s features. 

 

Wanda averted her gaze quickly, thinking, _Shit, shit, shit_ —

 

“Can I hug you?” came Natasha’s voice from beside her.

 

_Wait, what?_

 

She barely managed a nod as her brain lost all function, so completely stunned by the direction her talk with the redheaded girl had taken, because what—

 

Then Natasha was sliding her arms around Wanda’s neck, head nuzzled into the crook of her neck as the taller girl instinctively wrapped her arms around Natasha’s waist.

 

_Holy fuck, holy fuck, I can’t believe this is actually happening, h_ —

 

Her train of thought was cut off as Natasha mumbled a muffled “Thanks” into her neck. 

 

And Wanda’s brain promptly imploded. 

 

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	5. "why is there an egg in this math problem?" (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha, Wanda, Clint and Pietro go to the park together. 
> 
> Natasha's having gay thoughts, and then she gets a phone call.
> 
> Things go downhill from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this is one of the chapters that depicts past physical and sexual abuse; again, please consider that before you decide to continue. 
> 
> And as always, I'd love to know what you guys think!

Natasha had a problem: she was pretty sure she was attracted to Wanda Maximoff, one of the two newest students at Tesseract High.

 

Which was dumb, because it’d only been a day.

 

But, whatever, she supposed, because that wasn’t the worst part. 

 

The worst part was the fact that Natasha didn’t know what attraction was even supposed to _feel_ like, never having experienced it before—her late father had made sure of that long before he finally drank himself to death. 

 

So, it was alarming, needless to say, that her heart sped up every time Wanda smiled at her (or so much as _looked_ at her, really), because she was having considerable trouble discerning what in the _world_ it was all supposed to mean; what was even more alarming was just how _good_ it felt every time she could make the blue-eyed girl laugh, her chest immediately tingling with warmth and safety and something that felt suspiciously like happiness.

 

Happiness scared Natasha—she didn’t trust it. 

 

Happiness was her father’s better days, when he’d come home smiling and telling her in his thick Russian accent just how proud he was of his little girl (девушка; _devushka_ )—then two drinks later when he was touching her with his meaty hands and dragging her by the hair down to the basement so he could cuff her small hands to the metal pipes and have his way with her on the stained mattress as she screamed and cried. There was so much blood the first time it happened.

 

Happiness was a brand-new bike from the shop down the street that she rode joyously around the cul-de-sac for a whole hour despite the soreness from last night between her thighs, followed quickly by her father yanking her inside and leaving her cuffed to the basement for the next three days, charging his coworkers from the power plant beer and money and cigarettes for 30 minutes alone with her. She was 11.

 

She’d fallen pregnant a few times (though the first time she hadn’t known for the life of her what was happening), and for a couple of brief moments, she felt like maybe the child growing in her rounding belly might just be the sort of happiness that didn’t hurt so bad, the kind that would make her father and his friends finally leave her alone. 

 

She’d been wrong. 

 

Because not only did her rounding belly and sudden bouts of morning sickness not do a thing do stop her father from using her whenever he pleased, he also never let her stay pregnant for long—Natasha supposed that he wasn’t inclined to give up his live-in sex toy for something as trivial as a pregnancy. And, since her father was far too cheap to bother bringing Natasha to a clinic for the abortions, he got creative with his methods instead: because as it turned out, beating her within inches of her life with an especially violent focus towards her stomach worked just as well to cause a miscarriage as any other prescribed drug in the state.

 

So, no, Natasha didn’t trust happiness. 

 

But, as she sat with her head rested comfortably on Wanda’s shoulder under the shade of that beautiful Beech tree with an unsettingly strong desire to tell the girl all the big and little things she’d never dared to utter aloud, it hit her then that, given time, she knew she could grow to trust Wanda—and that scared her worse than anything. 

 

A wave of relief washed over her when the obnoxious sound of the last bell trickled faintly over to where they sat, because given five more minutes with the girl beside her, Natasha wasn't sure she could’ve stopped herself from telling Wanda _everything_. 

 

Forcing herself to stand, she turned to look down at Wanda dressed in those sinfully tight black jeans and a sheer burgundy long-sleeved sweater, then offered a hand to her with a trademark smirk. 

 

Natasha's heart thrilled when Wanda easily took her hand, a shy grin spreading across the blue-eyed girl’s face as she intertwined their fingers and stood. And just like that, Natasha was transfixed, because suddenly Wanda’s face was centimeters from hers and her eyes were just so _blue_ and _Wow, I really want to kiss her right now_.

 

She could vaguely hear the voices in her brain screaming frantically at her to do literally anything other than stare into the incredible cerulean of Wanda’s ocean-blue eyes like the most useless lesbian in the entire universe, but then her mind was belatedly registering the feel of Wanda’s breath ghosting warmly across her lips and an incredible sensation of something she couldn’t quite name was blooming steadily in her chest and God, she couldn’t have cared less about anything else right then—not with Wanda’s face so close and the way her eyes were sparkling like—

 

“Should we go find Clint and my brother?” Wanda breathed against Natasha’s lips, effectively bringing the redheaded girl back down to earth as it suddenly dawned on her where they were and what was happening and _Oh my God, we almost kissed._

 

She barely managed a nod as Wanda gazed down at her with a question in her a blue-eyed gaze, because _Oh my God, I almost kissed Wanda Maximoff._

 

Then the girl was leading her across the grass and back towards the building, her hand warm in Natasha’s even as the green-eyed girl felt her head spin for reasons she’d have liked to blame literally anything else for—but it was all Wanda: the way she smiled and how cute she looked when she scrunched her button nose and that cinnamon scent that seemed to follow her _everywhere_ —

 

_Oh, this is bad_ , she thought. _This is very bad._

 

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Eventually (and don’t ask her how, because she’s still not entirely sure), Natasha managed to gather her wits about her by the time she and Wanda had re-entered the school building—which was good, especially because Natasha was meant to be the one leading Wanda to the auditorium where they had planned to meet Clint and Pietro after classes.

 

Shaking herself from her daze (or, at least, _trying_ to), she managed to guide a slightly anxious Wanda through the hallways and eventually through a set of double doors leading directly into the school's auditorium, which, thankfully, was empty—the theatre kids were on a brief hiatus after their showing of the Little Mermaid last weekend. 

 

Walking easily past the rows of plush seating, Natasha jumped comfortably up to sit on the stage, allowing her legs to dangle off the edge as she encouraged Wanda to do the same. The girl complied, albeit with notable hesitation. 

 

"Clint promised he'd grab Pietro after PreCalc since their classes are right next to each other,” Natasha assured Wanda, who was fiddling again with the silver rings on her thin fingers. 

 

Wanda just sighed and nodded, shaking her head at herself. “I am sorry,” she spoke, Slavic accent falling heavy from her red lips. “I am just a very nervous person, I think.”

 

Natasha felt herself nodding in gentle understanding, a sad smile forming across her features. She understood that better than most: how fucking _hard_ it was to trust the world after seeing firsthand how truly messed up it all really is… though she thinks she might be better at hiding that inner turmoil than Wanda is. 

 

She'd learned a long time ago that showing her uncertainty only served to make things worse for her: making her father’s friends just grin that much wider and cause her that much more pain as they laughed, delighting in her fear. It was almost a game to them—who could scare her the most, make her scream the loudest.

 

It’s experiences like that that cause you to stop believing in the inherent good of humanity, because while she used to find such thinking brave and inspiring, she now just finds it stupidly optimistic and horribly deceiving in every sense. 

 

There was no ‘good' in the men who beat and raped and degraded her until she begged for them to stop, then proceeded to kick and beat her even worse for having the nerve to complain about it—and, Natasha doesn’t understand for the life of her why she should sit here in the midst of PTSD and nightmares and paranoia and a whole host of other symptoms that won’t leave her the _fuck_ alone and say that those men were anything other than pure evil. 

 

Because, she doesn’t care anymore about giving comfort to the idealists around the world who bask in their ignorant and wholehearted belief that humans aren’t monsters—they’re just telling themselves that so they can sleep better at night, and really, that’s none of Natasha’s concern. 

 

They’re lucky, though, because the majority of them can afford to remain blind to it all—the majority of them never have to know just how fucking bad it gets when people expose the darkest parts of themselves.

 

Natasha does, and she wishes with every passing day that she didn’t. 

 

She’s glad that Wanda isn’t like her. 

 

“So, you have now reached the end of your very first day at Tesseract High,” Natasha spoke, shaking herself out of her thoughts. “What do you think?”

 

Wanda’s lips quirked into a tiny grin. “It is scary, but… you guys are being so nice to me and Pietro, and I have no idea why, but… that makes it a lot better.”

 

Natasha’s heart clenched at the girl’s honesty. “There’s no hidden agenda, Wanda,” she said gently. “I promise.”

 

Wanda just nodded, precious vulnerability showing in her blue eyes, and Natasha was overcome (again) with the sudden urge to kiss her, to feel her lips pressed—

 

“Hey, assholes!” Clint’s loud voice interrupted her thoughts from up above, where he stood in his ripped blue jeans next to a smirking Pietro on the catwalk. 

 

Natasha just rolled her eyes, trying to decide if she was grateful for or upset by the boy’s untimely interruption. “Get down from there, you idiot,” she called back.

 

She heard a low grumble—probably Clint, she thought—and faint clanging sounds as the two boys shuffled obediently out of sight to descend the spiral staircase down to ground level, appearing moments later through a doorway on the side of the auditorium. 

 

Then Clint was jogging down to approach the stage, Pietro close behind him. “So,” he said excitedly when he was standing before the two girls, hands spread excitedly. “We good to go?” 

 

Natasha just nodded, then turned to look at Wanda beside her. 

 

She watched with interest as the girl made purposeful eye contact with her twin, each silently communicating something to the other, before darting her eyes back over to a beaming Clint with a bashful nod. (Fucking _adorable_ , Natasha thought.)

 

Clint clapped his hands together loudly, rubbing them against each other in eager anticipation. “Let’s do it!” 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

Natasha’s car wasn’t nice, but it did the job. 

 

Ever since her father had died, she’d been more or less on her own—her mother had fucked off to God knows where without a second glance (though not before telling her 14-year-old daughter what a dirty whore she was for seducing her own father paired with a sharp backhand to Natasha's cheek; Natasha still had a faint scar below her cheekbone where the diamond of her mother’s wedding ring had cut into her flesh); though she still returned to gather Yevgeni’s monthly pension along with child-support from the government, claiming that Natasha was still in her care to avoid CPS busting down her doors and taking away her payday. 

 

It’d been tough for her, living on her own, especially at the age of 14—there were very few reputable places (i.e. places not owned by sleazebags wanting to use Natasha’s body like her father had) that would willingly hire someone so young… but she made it work. 

 

She taught herself about computer codes, how to breach firewalls and type her own programs using JavaScript—it took her a whole year to save up for a decent laptop, stealing expensive jewelry from various places and pawning it off to acquire the money she needed. From there, she built codes and programming software of her own, selling it for handsome sums of money to countless benefactors across the internet—though she was careful about who she sold to. 

 

Then she’d met Daisy along the way, who was an absolute whiz in every sense of the word at all things hacking and programming. Occasionally Natasha would call her up to pick her brain about the best way to go about spoofing her IP from certain spots of the Darkweb or breaking through especially tough encryptions—plus, having Daisy as a friend came with the added bonus that the girl was fucking _hilarious_ and never failed to make her laugh, even despite having experienced a deeply messed-up past that was somewhat similar to Natasha’s own. Nowadays, she only stole when she had to—which, thankfully, wasn’t very often.

 

Now, she was living comfortably—at least, as comfortably as she could being a 17-year-old kid living off 0 benefits from the government and her own sporadic paychecks from the business of illegal networking… She’d acquired a car, along with her driver’s license (scamming the DMV about her home situation had been alarmingly easy), and kept a weekly allowance for groceries pinned to the fridge with her favorite hourglass-shaped magnet (Clint’s gift to her on her 16th birthday)—hell, she’d even started to pay off the mortgage on her father’s house in addition to saving up for college.

 

But she was still living alone, a good four months away from turning 18, and the last thing she wanted to do was draw attention to herself—Child Protective Services wouldn’t hesitate to throw her ass in foster care the second they knew she was doing everything on her own, no matter how competent she’d proven herself to be over the years. 

 

Initially she'd debated buying a higher-end car just as a ‘Good job, Natasha’ present for herself, but had ultimately decided against it, knowing all too well the degree of unwanted attention that might attract, thereby spectacularly fucking up everything she’d done to stay afloat since the day her mother left. 

 

So she didn’t own a nice car, per se, just a black-painted Hybrid Ford Fusion model from a few years back with a red stripe down the middle (not her doing), but she kept it clean, and it hadn’t once broken down on her in the past two years—for Natasha, that was more than enough. 

 

“Wooo-hoooo!” Natasha rolled her eyes at Clint as they sped around the bend, the boy leaning his head precariously out the passenger-door window like a puppy and whooping happily.

 

Idly, Natasha thought she might chalk this down later as one of her happier moments—one of her favorite songs was playing through the speakers, both Maximoff twins looking wary but content in the backseat as she peered at them through the rearview, and she was grinning to herself when they arrived, consciously slowing her speed to pull into the parking lot of Werth Park (Clint’s favorite). 

 

A second after she’d parked, Clint was wrenching open his door and excitedly jumping out of the car well before Natasha had a chance to cut the engine—the redhead just smiled at that and shook her head, shutting the car off and removing the keys from the ignition as she turned to eye the still unmoving twins sitting in the backseat.

 

“Ignore him,” she said with an eye roll and a conspiratorial grin. “He gets very excited by nature.”

 

Wanda smiled immediately back at her, causing Natasha’s heart to promptly skip a beat— _Christ, she’s breathtaking_ , she thought.

 

Pietro just raised an eyebrow, his eyes darting back and forth from an almost maniacal Clint outside to a still-smirking Natasha. “I had not noticed,” he said dryly, making Natasha laugh where she sat. 

 

She liked Pietro, she decided then—she’d expected to, considering how kind and warm Wanda was, but she’d been holding off judgement until she had the opportunity to spend more time with the boy.

 

Briefly, she found herself hoping that the twins might stick around to be parts of the life she’d built here in this small corner of southern Vermont—that maybe, just maybe, sitting here and laughing with Wanda and Pietro feeling more relaxed than she had in what felt like forever didn’t have to be temporary.

 

God, she was sentimental—unrealistically so, she often feared.

 

“Now, let’s go do some PreCalc, shall we?” 

 

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They spent the next hour at one of the many picnic tables in the park, textbooks open, Clint and the twins listening with gobsmacked faces to a considerably indulgent Natasha as she taught them about limits and logarithms, walking carefully through each step of every problem on the homework. 

 

It was slow going.

 

“I don’t get it,” Clint whined—not for the first time in the last hour—after staring at his notebook for a long moment. 

 

Natasha sighed. They were almost halfway through the assignment, but Christ, the hyperactive boy wasn’t making it easy on her, what with his constant groans and endless complaints about how math "just didn’t make sense." 

 

(She made a mental note to talk to Clint later—privately, of course—about obtaining some Ritalin or Adderall off one of their mutual and more morally-ambiguous friends to help with his rather pronounced issues when required to pay attention to literally anything of even mild importance… she wasn’t a doctor, and neither was he, but she’d bet all her savings on the boy having ADHD or, at the very least, ADD—and additionally, she’d done a good deal of reading on it in during late nights in the library over the past few weeks. 

 

And Clint was like her: he didn’t have parents to help him out, just a 20-year-old brother who did very little to help pay for their housing or Clint’s schooling despite working a steady job and collecting monthly benefits from the government. No, Natasha was the best he had, and she intended to take that responsibility as seriously now as she always had.)

 

“It’s simple algebra and trig,” she insisted, even as Clint let out another loud groan. 

 

“It’s not,” he complained. “It’s…it’s witchcraft.” 

 

Pietro, who was sitting across from a very disgruntled Clint, nodded his head gravely in agreement. “Why is there an egg in this problem?” the twin asked seriously then, hazel eyes filled with confusion, and Natasha fought the immediate urge to let out a heavy sigh.

 

“It’s a Greek theta, buddy. You should write that down,” she said instead, tone soft. She didn’t miss as Wanda smiled softly across from her in response to the patient explanation combined with the perfunctory term of endearment. (She hadn’t meant for it to slip out, but if it got Wanda to smile like that, she certainly didn’t regret saying it.)

 

Another groan had just escaped Clint as his jean-clad leg tapped up and down with frantic hyperactivity, causing Natasha to seriously contemplate just moving onto the next problem, eggs and witchcraft be damned—when her phone began to buzz in the back pocket of her jeans. 

 

Clint’s head snapped up beside her at the sound, desperate for any sort of distraction as he intently eyed Natasha fishing the device out of her pocket. The green-eyed girl frowning at the unknown number with a 585 area code displayed on the screen. 

 

“Hey, Clint,” she said, curiosity tinging her tone. “Which state has a 585 area code again? I know it’s somewhere around here…” 

 

Clint hummed for a long moment, brows furrowed. “I think it’s one of the cities in New York?” 

 

Natasha just nodded back, a hesitant speculation beginning to form in her mind. “Yeah, that sounds right. Okay, I’ll be right back,” she assured them, swinging a leg over the wooden plank and standing as she patted Clint’s firm shoulder. “You guys keep working.” 

 

Natasha walked a ways away from the picnic table, the phone still buzzing in her hand as nerves built steadily in her chest. 

 

(She hadn’t told Clint, but she’d begun applications for the both of them on the CommonApplication website, even though it was early still—Clint never believed himself to be smart enough for college, but she knew a) that that was horseshit and b) that he wanted it more than he’d ever admit to anyone, much less himself.

 

One of the schools she’d been looking at was a university up in Rochester, New York—with a sensible tuition that she could reasonably pay for the both of them so long as her online business held up, a fairly high acceptance rate, and a close proximity to home.

 

She’d paid for and forced Clint to take the SAT's with her over this past summer; after weeks spent preparing and an obscene amount of complaining on Clint’s part, they'd both walked out of the testing center feeling fairly good about their scores—and months later, their wary confidence proved to be warranted: Clint had scored a 1310 out of 1600, while Natasha had received a 1490. She’d never been so proud of him.

 

A couple weeks later, and without telling Clint, she’d sent in their applications—she figured the two of them deserved something nice after all the shit they’d been through. She hoped more than anything that she could make this a reality for both of them.)

 

She bit her lip, again eyeing the number on the screen, trying desperately to tamp down the hope building in her chest that said maybe this was the university calling to tell her that the applications had been received and that they looked good, that maybe the two of them had a chance to aspire to something better after years of thinking they’d never make it this far.

 

Natasha took a deep breath, steeling herself, then tapped the ‘accept call’ button and held it up to her ear. 

 

“Hello?”

 

For a moment, there was no response. Then—“Привет, Natalia” a gravelly voice that _definitely_ wasn’t the admissions rep for the University of Rochester filtered through the speaker, one she’d come to know very well in the time she'd spent chained to her father’s basement and Oh, _fuck_. Fear suddenly gripped her throat, cold and horribly familiar, memories of the man—Alexei—looking down at her with a wicked grin as one thick forearm crushed her windpipe, his other hand groping roughly at her naked body, her father’s laugh filtering in from the distance and her vision beginning to blacken around the edges—

 

_No_ , she told herself as firmly as she could manage. _You’re not going back there_. 

 

Hands shaking, she quickly hung up the phone, feeling her lungs begin to compress, breathing coming in short desperate gasps as she fought the sudden urge to throw up. 

 

_Not again_ , her mind kept saying, _not again not again not again_ —

 

“Hey Tasha!” Clint’s distant yell interrupted her thoughts; she could barely gather the strength to turn and acknowledge the boy waving at her from where he sat at the picnic table with the twins. “All good?” 

 

Natasha took a long and slow breath, willing the nausea in her throat to abate. “Yeah,” she managed to call back, cursing inwardly when her voice cracked on the single syllable. “All good.”

 

Biting her lip, she shoved her phone back into the butt-pocket of her jeans, still dangerously nearing a state of complete hyperventilation like an untreated asthmatic after a marathon. 

 

_C’mon, Romanoff_ , she told herself, every muscle tensed. _Breathe_. 

 

In the distance she managed to lock eyes with Wanda where she sat next to Pietro, who was looking at her with obvious concern written across her pretty features. Natasha quickly found that focusing on those unbelievably blue eyes made it much simpler to consciously slow her erratic heartbeat, her breathing starting to come just a little bit easier, and she didn’t care right now about what that probably meant, about how _gone_ she already was for this girl—she just focused on Wanda, on letting everything else fall to the wayside as those cerulean eyes locked onto hers, Natasha's legs beginning to walk her back to the picnic table as if they had a mind of their own. 

 

Her breathing had almost returned to normal by the time she was back at the table and sitting next to Clint (though slightly unsure of how she’d gotten there), three pairs of eyes on her as she tried hopelessly to make herself focus again. 

 

“Who was th—” Pietro began to ask, the question dying in his throat as Clint threw him a hard glare. 

 

“It’s fine, you can ask,” Natasha made herself speak, not wanting to have killed the conversation with her brief meltdown. She fiddled with the pencil in her hands, her eyes darting up to meet Wanda’s even as she answered Pietro’s unfinished question. “I don’t want to lie to you guys, so let’s just say it’s someone I used to know… and I’ll tell you about it once I’ve resolved everything, okay?” 

 

There was a brief moment of silence. 

 

“Can we be done with PreCalc for the day?” Clint asked then, seeing an opportunity. 

 

Natasha could feel the twins watching her as if she were a ticking time bomb, like Clint’s question might cause her to explode into a murderous rampage; she just chuckled, again thanking whoever was up there for Clint’s easygoing (though sometimes infuriating) personality—he was always there with an offhand comment or something ridiculous to successfully break the tension. 

 

“Yeah, Barton,” she grinned. "We can be done for the day.”

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

Natasha pulled up to her father’s—hers now, she supposed—modest one-story house, sighing as she cut the engine and removed the keys from the ignition. She couldn’t help her gaze darting once more to her phone sitting in one of the cup holders, screen dark, watching it with bated breath like it might start buzzing again any second with Alexei’s number on the display. 

 

(Clint had texted her earlier to ask if she was alright, but she’d ignored it. She couldn’t face him right now.)

 

_Fuck_ , she thought.

 

She stumbled out of her car, somewhat lacking in the grace she usually exhibited (the only extracurricular Yevgeni had ever bothered to invest in for her was ballet, though Natasha didn’t for the life of her know why, but then the bruises started getting worse and she was forced to stop going around the age of 9) as she slung her book bag over her shoulder. She focused all her energy on not tripping as she approached the front door, smiling wryly to herself when she managed it. 

 

Then she was fumbling with her keys and hissing out a curse in Russian as they dropped to the front stoop, before snatching them up in shaking hands and proceeding to spend the next five minutes trying to fit the stupid key in the lock to open her front door. 

 

_Honestly_ , she thought as she lurched through the doorway, allowing her book bag to fall with a light _fwump!_ to the hardwood, _it’s a miracle I managed to drive the twins and Clint back to school, then drive myself back here without swerving into a tree_. 

 

She barely remembered to lock the door behind her, mind singularly focused on getting herself to the kitchen and pouring herself a shot of the strongest vodka she owned. 

 

It burned as she poured it down; it always did. She gasped, shaking her head and scrunching her nose at the awful taste. 

 

God, if her father could see her now—choking down a shot of vodka with a sour expression on her face like a newly 21-year-old red-blooded American out for their first night of legal drinking.

 

_Weak_ , his grating voice echoed in her brain, and she felt her eyes beginning to burn with unshed tears. _Dirty whore._

 

She poured herself another shot and didn’t flinch as it went down. 

 

Her phone buzzed again, causing her entire body to flinch involuntarily, clear liquid sloshing onto the counter as her hands trembled trying to fill the shot glass again; but it was just another message from a worried Clint, begging her to please text him back to at least let him know she was okay. 

 

She ignored it in favor of slamming another shot back, delighting in the resultant burn it left in her chest.

 

It was going to be a long night. 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

Natasha ended up falling asleep at around 4am that morning, when she’d had enough 80-proof vodka to knock out an NFL linebacker. 

 

She woke to blinding sunlight in her eyes and a shrill beeping in her ear (thank _God_ she’d had the foresight to set an alarm), and—Oh _shit_. There was a clanking noise and a horribly familiar sensation of metal cutting into the delicate skin of her wrist as she shifted onto her side—abruptly, her bleary eyes registered the handcuffs fastening one wrist firmly to the metal slats of the bed frame.

 

She shifted and groaned loudly as her head began to throb, a string of colorful profanity escaping her dry throat as she cursed Drunk Natasha for having such a pathetically low impulse-control (or, really, no impulse control at _all_ , because this was an entirely new level of stupid).

 

_Idiot_ , she scolded herself, hands patting at the bedsheets beneath her in a dazed search for the key as her eyes groggily scanned the room.

 

She sighed with barely-concealed exasperation when her hands finally curled around the tiny metal pair of keys she’d shoved beneath her pillow the night before, easily unlocking the cuffs with her one free hand, allowing muscle memory to take over as the ache in her head steadily grew worse.

 

She sighed when she'd successfully shifted herself into a seated position on the mattress with her bare feet toeing the hardwood flooring, the cold metal of the cuffs gripped in slightly shaking hands—because _Fuck, not again_. 

 

After so many nights spent lying handcuffed on the blood-and-semen-stained mattress, she found it hard sometimes to sleep without the cold metal encircling her wrist, even after Yevgeni was dead and her mother had long since gone. 

 

She knew it was fucked up, but a day later she’d gone to the store and bought herself a pair of handcuffs, ignoring the suggestive look she'd gotten from the greasy middle-aged cashier as she paid. 

 

She slept with one wrist cuffing herself to the bed until she’d turned 16.

 

Eventually, Clint had taken notice of the bruised and broken flesh around her wrists (she switched off on which arm to cuff every night to avoid any more permanent scarring), badgering her endlessly until finally she’d told him. He’d fixed her with a look of such tenderness when she’d finally said it aloud, and she promptly found herself breaking down and crying like she hadn’t in years. 

 

They spent weeks coming up with ideas for her to sleep without restraining herself—it was one of the hardest things she’d ever done (some nights she still ached to dig the cuffs out of her nightstand), but she didn’t use them anymore; in fact, she hadn’t used them since she’d been 16.

 

And now? Well. 

 

Now, she’d fucked up. Again.

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Привет ( _Privyet_ ): Hello


	6. sparky (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins meet Tony for the first time!
> 
> It goes.... about as well as you'd expect. 
> 
> Also, Natasha is really hot when she's angry.

Wanda’s brow was furrowed, still thinking about Natasha and the phone call the redhead had received earlier at the park as she and Pietro approached their run-down trailer—she was so preoccupied, in fact, that she didn’t notice the neon-yellow slip of paper pasted onto their door until Pietro was waving a hand in front of her face and pointing at it and asking her what the _hell_ they were gonna do.

 

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, the piece of paper gradually came into focus—and Wanda’s stomach abruptly dropped. ‘Eviction Notice’ was typed boldly across the top in thick black lettering, along with a request that they be moved out and gone in two weeks’ time—or else. 

 

Oh, _shit_. 

 

Wanda numbly wrenched the door open, head spinning as she dropped her book bag unceremoniously onto the floor, then moved to lean herself against the kitchen counter with pursed lips. Pietro followed, coming to stand just across from her in the small space with a heavy sigh—the situation only seemed to get all the more dire under the dim lighting of the trailer’s dreary kitchen space.

 

They were both silent for a long moment.

 

“I do not understand,” Wanda said eventually, shaking her head dejectedly. “I paid Michelle our rent for the month last week.”

 

Pietro ran a hand through his hair, a frantic look in his eyes. “Do you—Do you think that she knows? About us?”

 

Wanda felt the vice around her heart clench even further at that, even as she _knew_ that there was no possible way for that to have happened. “She cannot,” she responded. “We have been so careful—windows shut, only using our powers inside—"

 

“Then how is this happening?” her twin looked positively distraught, and truthfully, Wanda wasn’t faring much better—but she knew she couldn’t let it show, because one of them had to be brave right now—and as Pietro’s breathing quickened to an unnatural pace that bordered on a state of utter panic, she knew it would have to be her. 

 

“I do not know,” she quipped back, forcing her tone to remain even. “I will talk to Michelle when she comes this weekend… but still, we need to find ourselves a back-up plan, just in case.” 

 

Pietro’s eyes widened. “Back-up plan?”

 

Wanda nodded, biting her lip thoughtfully. “A place we can stay while we get enough money to afford something else.”

 

Her brother let out an agitated curse in Sokovian at that, and Wanda fought the urge to do the same. 

 

She wanted to scream at someone—at who, she wasn’t sure, but she understood why Pietro was upset because _Fuck_ it all, she was too. She could feel it rising in her chest like a tidal wave, and she hated having to fight it, hated that it just made her feel so fucking _angry_ , angrier than she’d been in a long time. Angry that after years of fighting for their freedom, years spent in cages being poked and prodded, years spent starved for food and water in Sokovia—still, the world was managing to find new ways to knock them off their feet, as if the lifetime of suffering they’d endured hadn’t been enough.

 

Wanda let out a slow breath, willing the anger to fade even as her head throbbed with its intensity, half-baked plans of what the _hell_ they were going to do after they were homeless running sporadically through her brain. 

 

_Fuck_ , she thought.

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

They walked to school the next morning in somber silence, minds still on the bold eviction notice pasted squarely on the front door of their tiny trailer. 

 

“I’ll start looking at living spaces near Tesseract today,” she mumbled to Pietro as they climbed the stone steps of the school building. 

 

Her twin just nodded numbly, eyes downcast. 

 

“Hey,” she said, gently nudging Pietro’s arm to make him focus on her as they stopped just before the double doors, the muffled sounds of students’ chatter filtering faintly through the polished wood. “We are going to figure this out.”

 

His hazel eyes darted up to meet hers, and she felt her heart break at the utter helplessness she found there.

 

She struggled to keep an expression on her features that resembled something like hope, something akin to genuine reassurance—if not for her, then for Pietro, at least. (Though if she was being honest with herself, she’d been in pitifully short supply of both for a very long time. )

 

Eventually, her brother nodded, though his eyes still held a sadness she desperately wished she could take away.

 

“Yeah,” he muttered back, leaning to press a soft kiss against her forehead, Wanda's eyes fluttering shut at the comforting action. It felt emptier than it usually did. “I am going to go now… Physics is in the other building. I love you, Wanda.”

 

She fought the tears burning her eyes at his admission, because God, it felt far too much like goodbye—and they’d long ago promised to never say such a thing to each other. 

 

“I love you, too,” she said softly back, voice cracking dismally like an adolescent boy in the midst of puberty. 

 

She watched Pietro drag his feet as he descended the steps, her brows furrowed over stormy blue eyes, fighting the urge to let the tears building in her eyes fall as he turned to make his way towards the other Tesseract building without a backwards glance. 

 

Her resolve hardened then, even as her stomach twisted painfully at seeing her twin so broken down: she would find something for them, something _better_ … whatever it took.

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

By all accounts, Wanda was already having a shitty day. Pietro, too. 

 

So, she supposed, why _shouldn’t_ it just get that much shittier before the day was even halfway over? 

 

Why _shouldn’t_ she and Pietro be approached in the hallways by a smug-looking Tony Stark (if Pietro’s glare was any indication) looking them up and down like he had every intention of interacting with them, and then proceeding to do so despite the obvious distaste on both twins’ faces?

 

Why the hell _not_ , right?

 

“So,” the boy—Tony—said confidently, and Wanda fought the sudden urge to turn around and tell Pietro to zoom them out of there _now_ , her rules about using their powers in public be damned. “You’re the new kids,” the youngest Stark continued. “Where are you guys from?”

 

He had a swagger about him that made Wanda want to punch someone… preferably him.

 

“Sokovia,” she heard herself say in a small voice, desperately hoping his curiosity would be sated by her answer, that he’d turn around and leave the both of them alone. 

 

(She could feel Pietro practically vibrating at her side with anger, and she knew all too well it was only a matter of time before his entire body was glowing blue from every pore with pure energy if he kept that up. 

 

What’s more, she didn’t stand a chance of stopping him if he lost his cool—at least, not without revealing her own abilities as well.)

 

But Tony’s smirk just grew wider as he eyed the two of them, his brown-eyed gaze eventually coming to rest on a positively seething Pietro. “What’s his deal?” 

 

He'd directed the question towards Wanda, but sooner than the girl could blink Pietro was standing protectively before her with bared teeth, snarling, “My _deal_ is that I would like you to fuck off. _Now_ , please.”

 

_Well, that was quick_ , Wanda thought. 

 

The two boy’s noses were inches apart, Pietro’s face screwed up into something that bordered on absolute rage, dark eyebrows furrowed even as Tony Stark managed to remain looking entirely unbothered, wearing the same pretentious smirk on his features as his eyes danced with amusement. 

 

Wanda vaguely registered a crowd beginning to form around the three of them as the two boys faced off (Tony was obviously a very well-known figure around the halls of Tesseract High), nerves twisting painfully in her stomach— _Shit_ , she thought.

 

“Oh, ho-ho!” the brown-haired boy said then, clapping a hand on Pietro’s muscled shoulder, the grin on his face unyielding even as Pietro immediately shoved it off with a snarl. “Tough guy, are we?” Tony mocked with a raised brow. 

 

A faint blue-ish light began to glow from Pietro’s clenched fists—unnoticeable as of yet, but Wanda knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

 

“Pietro,” she hissed, bringing a hand up to pull desperately at his tensed arm— _God, he’s strong_. He didn’t move. “Pietro, come on,” she tried again, circling around and squeezing herself into the small space between the two boys. _Stubborn idiots_ —neither of them moved to give her space, making the entire endeavor that much more uncomfortable for everyone as she stood sandwiched, for lack of a better word, between her furious brother and the privileged boy who’d unknowingly taken everything from them. “This is not worth it." 

 

But Pietro’s eyes weren’t focused on her—her twin was glaring impassively at a still-smirking Tony (—which, what the _hell_ was wrong with that boy? Did he _want_ to get punched?), vivid blue energy crackling around the edges of hazel irises.

 

“Pietro,” she said, more emphatically this time as she placed a firm hand on his chest. Finally— _Thank God_ , she thought—his eyes darted sharply down to meet hers, the sea-blue sparks fading even as the snarl remained fixed across his features. “We need to go. _Now_.” 

 

For a moment it looked as though she might be getting through to him as his rapid breathing beginning to slow; for a moment she began to think that maybe, just maybe, he’d swallow his pride and walk away like he should, allow them the chance to regroup—

 

“He took _everything_ from us!” Pietro roared as he surged forward against her, eyes flashing dangerously.

 

_Well, shit_ , she thought. _It was a nice thought_.

 

She kept her hands pressed firmly against the Flash logo on the chest of her brother’s long-sleeved shirt, silently pleading with someone, _anyone_ to make this end—preferably sooner rather than later. 

 

It hit her then that Tony still hadn’t spoken—which, considering what she’d seen so far, was rather uncharacteristic of the audacious boy. 

 

(If she wasn’t so busy wrangling an outraged Pietro at that particular moment, and happened to chance a brief look back at the brown-eyed boy behind her, she might’ve taken note of the shocked look on his face as he took in her twin’s words along with the unadulterated anger on the Sokovian boy's face. 

 

But as it was, she had Pietro to get under control—and her brother was not making it easy on her.)

 

“Pietro, _please_ ,” she begged again, “We—“

 

“What the _hell_ is going on here?” came a voice that positively demanded attention, the crowd of people gathering to watch Pietro and Tony duke it out quickly parting to reveal a certain short and _very_ pissed off redheaded senior.

 

_Wow_ , Wanda thought, her breath catching in her throat. _She looks… Wow_. 

 

Natasha was standing assuredly in the halls wearing a tan leather jacket (which sounds horribly unflattering, but on her it looked…. well), arms crossed beneath her chest (which only drew Wanda’s eyes down to the pale skin of her ample breasts clearly visible above the low cut of her red tank top, making the whole thing that much more distracting) and tight black leggings with a pair of black high-top Converse to complete the entire look. She had one brow raised, the other furrowed to make for an absolutely _withering_ look of utter disapproval, green eyes aggressively darting from Wanda to Tony to Pietro and back to Wanda as she waited impatiently for an answer and— _Yep, this is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life_. 

 

“Well?” Natasha said when no one spoke, her raised brow creeping even further towards her hairline, gaze burning into Wanda.

 

_Can I die from this?_ Wanda couldn’t help but think. _Is that possible? I think I might be dying_. 

 

“Uh,” Wanda choked out, warmth pooling in her lower belly as Natasha tilted her head in response, green-eyed gaze intense and expectant. “Natasha! You look…. amazing.”

 

She’d never wanted to smack herself so badly. 

 

Natasha, for her part, looked taken aback for a moment but quickly recovered, eyes narrowing as a dangerous smirk spread across her lips. “Oh, no, no, _no_ ,” she said, stalking closer to the taller girl in a way that _really_ shouldn’t have felt as cripplingly seductive as it did. “You aren’t getting off that easy. Now,” she paused, her eyes moving from an utterly speechless Wanda to scan a gaping Pietro, before coming to land on a positively flabbergasted Tony. “You,” she said, pointing a perfectly-manicured nail painted a devastating red towards the brown-haired boy. “Speak.” 

 

_God, that’s hot_. 

 

Tony sputtered for a moment, seeming at a complete loss for words—though it didn’t last long, much to Wanda’s chagrin, because a second later he was blurting, “It’s not my fault!” in a shrill tone and gesturing his hands wildly as he scrambled to plead his case, clearly unused to someone _not_ taking his side for once. “I was just getting to know the new kids, you know, being my charming self—" Natasha scoffed at that, and Wanda fought the subsequent urge to laugh “—when _Sparky_ over here charged me like a bull!” 

 

(Later, Wanda would feel a little bit of concern over Tony’s newly appointed nickname for her brother, which implied he’d taken notice of the electric-blue currents flashing in Pietro’s eyes as the two fought, which… Well, shit.

 

But currently, she was fighting the urge to burst out laughing, because oh my God— _Sparky_. 

 

How come _she’d_ never thought of that one?)

 

Tony opened his mouth to continue voicing the no-doubt extensive account according to him of just how brutally he’d been victimized, but luckily, they were all saved as the earsplitting ring of the five-minute-warning bell tore abruptly through the halls, making both Wanda and Natasha flinch involuntarily.

 

Wanda looked curiously at the redheaded girl, then—she couldn’t be sure, having only met her just yesterday, but something seemed… off about her today. The careful way she carried herself, the overuse of concealer under her tired green eyes… Wanda couldn’t help but think back to the phone call from yesterday at the park—a tiny niggling thought began to grow in her brain that maybe things were a lot more serious than the redheaded girl had let on. 

 

Before she could really dissect that thought, though, Natasha was turning back to Tony with the same arousing—ahem, _assertive_ , Wanda had meant to say—look on her face, eyebrow still quirked expectantly. 

 

“Well?” she asked sharply as the boy gawked back at her with wide brown eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

 

“I-I,” the boy stuttered, clutching at the straps of his sleek (and probably ridiculously over-priced) grey book bag. “Yep!” he squeaked. “This was fun, guys— _not_ ; see you never!” He scampered off, and Wanda couldn’t help the small smile spreading across her face as she watched the previously self-assured boy high-tailing it around the corner in a desperate attempt to escape a still-glaring Natasha. 

 

With Tony gone, that just left Wanda and Pietro standing in the halls with matching dumbfounded expressions as Natasha turned to face them with a fiery gaze. 

 

_I really shouldn’t find this so attractive_ , Wanda thought to herself unhelpfully.

 

“The three of us,” Natasha said, making a triangle in the air with a single red-painted finger, “are going to have a _talk_ about this later.” 

 

Wanda gulped.

 

Not waiting for a verbal response, the green-eyed girl promptly turned on her heel, strutting purposefully down the hallway and eventually out of sight ( _Those leggings are absolutely sinful_ , Wanda thought), leaving both twins staring helplessly after her, mouths agape. 

 

Holy _shit_. 

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧


	7. "what is a 'gollum'?" (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's super into Lord of the Rings. Wanda, less so.
> 
> Also, Wanda and Natasha talk after Natasha's bad night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter... I would love to know what you think!!

“So,” Clint’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and Wanda fought the urge to heave a long sigh, the boy having leaned himself over the aisle between their desks as his eyebrows wiggled mischievously. “A little birdie told me you had an eventful meeting with one Tony Stark in the halls earlier today.”

 

Wanda tapped a pale finger against her wrist, eyeing a peaceful Mr. Coulson seated at his desk with pleading eyes, as though he might feel her desperation and opt to start the lesson, thereby saving her from having to answer Clint’s question.

 

No such luck. 

 

Wanda relented then, turning to the blonde boy and cocking an eyebrow. “Who is this little bird that you speak of?” 

 

“You know, your accent is like, so cool,” Clint said, blue eyes wide and genuine as Wanda felt heat burn in her cheeks—then he seemed to register Wanda’s question, blinking quickly as he replied, “Oh, I don’t actually have one—a bird, that is. I _wish_ ,” he chuckled to himself, then cut himself off at Wanda’s unamused look, scrambling to answer her question. “I think everyone heard about it, honestly.”

 

Wanda pursed her lips, letting out another sigh. “Fair enough.” 

 

“So?” 

 

“So what?” the girl asked, exhaustion seeping into her tone.

 

Clint gestured frantically with his hands, eyes twitching, clearly upset at not being in the know— _He’s doing an almost uncanny impression of our severely epileptic friend back in Sokovia in the midst of one of her more urgent bouts of seizures_ , Wanda thought briefly.

 

“What’s the deal?” he managed to blurt after an impressive profusion of agitated motion.

 

Wanda fought the urge to roll her eyes. “It is…” she debated lying for a moment, but thought better of it—Clint had shown her nothing but kindness and understanding thus far, and she knew better than most just how rare that could be. “It is a long story.” 

 

“Nooooooo,” Clint whined dramatically. “You _know_ I hate mysteries!”

 

“I met you yesterday,” Wanda said pointedly, lips quirking good-naturedly. 

 

Clint pouted for another moment. “Alright, then—keep your secrets.” His eyebrows wiggled at her again, his eyes expectant, like he’d just made an especially funny joke.

 

Wanda didn’t know much about American culture; she’s sure any reference the boy might’ve tried to make would inevitably fly way over her head—this was no exception. “What?”

 

Clint’s jaw dropped. “Wh-You—Lord of the Rings?” he asked, a disbelieving look on his face. “The One Ring to Rule Them All? Frodo Baggins?” Wanda just shook her head, growing more and more confused by the second. “Gollum?!”

 

“Are those strange terms supposed to mean something to me?” she said eventually, fighting the urge to laugh as Clint just gaped at her. “What is a ‘Gollum’?”

 

Clint looked to be in serious danger of fainting— _Any second now_ , Wanda thought—and admittedly, it was somewhat concerning (though undoubtedly amusing) how widely unhinged his jaw had become over the past minute or so.

 

“He’s referring to the series of books we’re reading for this class,” came Vision’s almost mechanical voice from behind her, and Wanda turned in her seat to face him. “J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings,” the boy finished, his icy-blue eyes unflinchingly focused on hers.

 

“Ah,” Wanda said, nodding to herself. “Never heard of it.”

 

“Wh-You’ve— _Never_ —Never _heard_ of it?!” Clint sputtered from her other side, sounding positively scandalized. “Okay, _no_ , let me do the Gollum voice—"

 

“Do not do the Gollum voice,” Vis said seriously, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

 

“But _everyone_ knows the Gollum voice!”

 

Vision sighed deeply. “That does not mean that they _like_ the Gollum voice.”

 

“I’m gonna do the Gollum voice.”

 

“Clint—"

 

“ _My Precious_ ,” Clint rasped suddenly even despite Vis’s protests, his voice taking on an absolutely horrible throaty and strangled quality, tanned face scrunched in a way that looked almost painful. “ _Filthy little Hobbitses_ —"

 

“My friend, I _beg_ of you to stop—"

 

“ _They try and takes it from us_ ,” the boy croaked hoarsely, completely ignoring Vis’s pleas, “ _they try and tricks us_—"

 

“Mr. Barton!” came the teacher’s voice—Mr. Coulson's, Wanda corrected herself—from where he stood near the chalkboard, a brow quirked amusedly above the thick black frames of his glasses. “Something to share with the class?”

 

Clint froze where he sat, his body still obscenely leaned into the aisle that separated his desk from Wanda's, blue eyes alarmingly wide as everyone in the class turned to fix their gaze upon him. 

 

Wanda fought the overwhelming urge to burst out laughing as Clint’s face turned beet red. 

 

“Uh-Uh—Nope!” the boy squawked out after a moment of tense silence, still frozen in place. “No, sir, Mr. Coulson! Nothing to report!!”

 

Vision sighed deeply from Wanda’s right. 

 

Mr. Coulson just smiled widely, eyes dancing behind his glasses with obvious enjoyment.

 

“You sure, buddy?” the man insisted even as the giggles of various students filled the room. “Because I gotta say—that sounded interesting.” 

 

Clint’s face was growing redder by the second. “N-No sir!” he let out a forced chuckle that sounded more like a cat being strangled. “Nothing interesting to see here! I would just _love_ to get into today’s lesson, though.”

 

A snort escaped Wanda before she could stop it, and she coughed into her hand in a futile attempt to conceal it, even as Mr. Coulson’s gaze flicked to meet hers with a playful glint in his kind brown eyes.

 

“Well,” Mr. Coulson said then, sighing theatrically. “If you’re sure…”

 

Clint nodded immediately with a vaguely terrified look in his eyes, head bobbing up and down at an unnaturally rapid pace, momentarily causing Wanda to worry for the structural integrity of the boy’s upper spine. 

 

“Okay,” Mr. Coulson finally said with a chuckle. “Then let’s get started. So, last night’s reading….”

 

As the man continued on, delving into his lesson plan for the day, Clint let out a slow breath, slumping bonelessly down into his chair, a bright red blush still staining his cheeks. 

 

“This is all your fault,” he hissed to Wanda under his breath even as his eyes remained steadfastly on a still-rambling Mr. Coulson up ahead, clearly unwilling to risk enduring a repeat of what had just occurred. 

 

Wanda didn’t fight the smirk spreading across her cheeks at the boy’s comical embarrassment. “I actually did know what you were talking about after a little while—Pietro and I watched the movies a couple years back. Éowyn is my favorite,” she whispered, winking slyly at a gaping Clint.

 

A moment later the boy’s head hit the desk with a solid _thunk!_ “I hate you,” he mumbled into the wooden surface. 

 

Wanda grin only spread, her cheeks beginning to feel sore from smiling—something that hadn’t happened in years, and certainly not with someone who wasn’t Pietro.

 

Maybe life at Tesseract wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

Next period was PreCalculus—with Natasha. 

 

Wanda entered Ms. Jemma Simmons' room just as the late bell sounded, nervous excitement fluttering in her ribcage—only to see her and Natasha’s assigned desk empty in the back row. She forced herself to walk casually between the two columns of desks, fighting the disappointment building in her chest at the prospect of enduring this entire class without the redheaded girl, especially because—

 

It dawned on her as she had settled in her seat that the ever-upbeat Ms. Simmons had just spoken to her… and she’d been too lost in her thoughts of Natasha to know for the life of her what she’d said. 

 

And now Ms. Simmons was tilting her head and looking at Wanda with those inquisitive brown eyes; even worse, her classmates had all turned in their seats to stare at her as they all waited for to respond.

 

_Shit_. 

 

“Uh,” she coughed, a blush spreading steadily across her cheeks as she fiddled with her thin red notebook on the tabletop. “Sorry, what?”

 

Ms. Simmons’ smile just softened in understanding, her hands coming up to smooth the non-existent wrinkles in her navy-blue cardigan. “I was asking if you’d seen Ms. Romanoff today?” she questioned gently. 

 

Wanda’s eyes darted to the seat next to her, then she was nodding her head shyly at Ms. Simmons. “I—"

 

Natasha chose that exact moment to appear in the doorway, looking… angry? sad? happy? Wanda really couldn’t tell; Natasha’s expression was unreadable as ever. She watched as the redheaded girl walked briskly down the aisle formed by the desks, then proceeded to drop herself unceremoniously into the seat on Wanda’s left. 

 

( _God, she smells good_.)

 

“Ms. Romanoff!” Ms. Simmons said, her accented tone filled with surprise. “I was getting worried!”

 

(From any other teacher, such a comment might have come off as sarcastic and more than a little passive-aggressive… but honestly, Wanda thought as she eyed the beaming PreCalc teacher, she wasn’t sure that Ms. Simmons had a single passive-aggressive bone in her body.

 

She was in her mid-twenties and wearing a _cardigan_ , for Chrissake. Plus, she smiled a lot. Like… a _lot_.

 

By all accounts, it appeared that the British woman was just one of those very rare people who was just _that_ nice to everyone, like, all the time—Wanda still wasn’t sure that she trusted it.

 

Trust aside, though, the Sokovian girl had decided that she rather liked Ms. Simmons and her unfailingly bright demeanor.)

 

Natasha nodded, a contrite expression flickering across her features—though, Wanda noted, she still looked rather distracted. 

 

_And beautiful_ , her mind added unhelpfully. _Don’t forget beautiful_.

 

“Sorry, Ms. Simmons,” the green-eyed girl said evenly, a smile pulling at her full lips (though it looked more than a little bit forced). “I didn’t mean to be late.”

 

Ms. Simmons just nodded brightly, still positively beaming. “No worries!” she exclaimed happily, turning her attention to address the entire class. “Okay, now that we’re all here, I’m going to give you guys the next 10 minutes or so to discuss the homework with your partners… Then, we’ll jump right into Lesson 7.4!”

 

Hearing that, Wanda turned slightly to eye an unflappable Natasha seated next to her—the girl’s leather-clad arms were crossed, one shapely leg slung over the other—and again, the whole crossing-of-the-arms thing didn’t exactly help with Wanda’s focus, because suddenly her traitorous eyes were drawn immediately down to the pale skin of Natasha’s—

 

_Focus, you useless gay idiot!_ Wanda scolded herself.

 

“Are you okay?” she managed to ask over the rising chatter of students discussing the homework around them, her worry only mounting when she took notice of the faint smell of alcohol underlying the intoxicating vanilla bean scent of Natasha’s perfume. 

 

Various thoughts raced through Wanda’s head. _Is it rubbing alcohol? Did she go to the doctor? Is she alright? Does her mom, or whoever looks after her, drink? Was_ Natasha _drinking last night?_

 

“Yeah,” Natasha said back with a small nod, her voice rough and muted, barely audible over the sound of their classmates’ perpetual chatter. “Just… a rough night, I guess.” 

 

Wanda nodded, watching the redhead with a cautious gaze. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked gently.

 

“I..,” Natasha trailed off, looking uncertain as she furrowed her brow. “.. I don’t know yet,” she said eventually. “Is.. Is that okay?” 

 

“Of course it’s okay, Natasha,” she quietly replied. “You do not owe me anything.” 

 

Natasha stared back at her for a moment, as if trying to discern a hidden meaning beneath Wanda’s words, or possibly a hint of sarcasm—Wanda wasn’t sure. Finding nothing, though, the redhead bit her lip, a thoughtful expression on her regal features. 

 

“I know, I just… want you to know me,” Natasha said quietly after a long moment, her green eyes sparking with a delicate intensity. 

 

(Wanda was quite glad she was sitting down at that particular moment, because suddenly her knees felt weak: the way Natasha's breathtaking emerald-green gaze burned into her, the immobilizing truth underlying the words she spoke, how _full_ her slightly-parted lips looked right now… _God, I’m so screwed_.)

 

“And I want that too,” Wanda reassured the girl. “It is just… do it in your own time, okay?”

 

A look of unmitigated shock was plastered onto Natasha’s features for a solid second or two (not the brief and difficult-to-discern flicker that was typical of Natasha, telling Wanda the girl must _really_ be tired, if she was allowing her emotions to show so plainly)—the shorter girl looked absolutely _floored_ at the prospect of someone encouraging her to choose how to conduct herself rather than simply demanding that she do things one way or the other—a flash of anger sparked in Wanda’s chest at the knowledge that she was likely one of very few people to ever present such freedom as an option to Natasha. 

 

She resolved then to do it as often as she could (subtly, of course), because _God_ , Natasha deserved so much better.

 

A moment later, the uneasiness in the green eyed girl’s expression was gone, replaced instead by a slightly raised brow and a small smirk tugging at her lips combining to form Natasha’s trademark mask of easy confidence.

 

“Okay,” the redheaded girl said, lips quirking. “I like the sound of that.”

 

Wanda smiled. 

 

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	8. "sorry about your pancakes." (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda has a bit of a meltdown, but luckily, Clint's there to help her out.
> 
> (Also, Clint is adorable and the best bro and he deserves all the love.)
> 
> Natasha has a 'chat' with the twins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter... would love to know what you think! :)

Sitting in the African-American Literature course for the very first time, it was quickly becoming very apparent to Wanda why Pietro had been so withdrawn when she’d attempted a conversation with her twin after his first time there. 

 

Don’t get her wrong—five minutes in, and she could already tell it was a fascinating course. On top of that, the teacher—Dr. Raina Lobelia, who, according to Clint, dressed herself exclusively in bright flower-dotted dresses for every occasion (today was no exception)—was clearly well-equipped to teach the course, with a Masters in African Studies from NYU, along with a published dissertation that was evidently held in high regard by much of the academic community in her field. 

 

Simply put, this woman was the real deal.

 

And maybe that’s where Pietro and Wanda had drawn the short straw, because this lady wasn’t going to get up and say something generic like “Slavery was bad and we should acknowledge that, but things are better now” and call it a day.

 

Instead, she had them reading excerpts from slave narratives, looking at slideshows of lynching victims, engaging in discussions about every blood-stained page of African-American history in the United States, and _Christ_ , she was thorough about it. 

 

At first, Wanda had found it interesting, albeit in an absolutely skin-crawling, horror-inducing kind of way—but interesting nonetheless. Her knowledge of American history was almost nonexistent to begin with, having been taught only the vaguest details of Sokovia’s past in school and little else; additionally, she knew that this history was important for reasons her teenaged mind couldn’t even begin to comprehend, because even a glimpse into the reality of African-American life in early America was an invaluable experience for her to have, and a privileged one at that.

 

So, truly: Wanda’s grateful for the opportunity she has here.

 

But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to keep a straight face when she’s listening to every graphic detail about the cages, and the beatings, and the families that were forced to separate without the chance to say goodbye, never to see each other ever again. 

 

She’ll never truly know the reality of just how fucking hopeless it all was, of course, and she thinks these African-American men and women and children are quite easily the bravest goddamned people who have ever lived… But to a certain extent (albeit a significantly lesser one), she too had been on the receiving end of violence like that, of not thinking she could ever escape those horrible men, of wishing they would just kill her because she didn’t think she could endure the pain of their captivity for any longer. 

 

And it almost broke her—no, scratch that, it _did_ break her, in a lot of ways. She’d never be so hopelessly optimistic as to try and convince herself otherwise.

 

(And still, the experiences of slaves in America were more than horrific enough to make Wanda’s year-and-a-half-long stint being held captive in Sokovia look like child’s play.

 

Those African-American descendants were fucking superheroes, whether they broke or they didn’t, whether they escaped or just died—anyone who tries to tell Wanda differently will unequivocally find their asses hex-blasted into space.

 

 _I certainly wouldn’t lose any sleep over it_ , she thought.)

 

But, regardless—she was sitting there, and Dr. Raina was delving deeply into horrible violence and unimaginable inhumanity from Ida B. Wells’ _The Red Record_ , and Wanda was fucking _shaking_ in her seat. 

 

She lasted about two more minutes of Dr. Raina's lecture, shivering violently in her seat even despite the long-sleeved cashmere sweater and long black jeans on her thin frame—when another photo was then projected onto the screen, that of a blood-streaked African child who couldn’t have been more than 7, a vacant look in his eyes as the naked boy sat locked helplessly in a rusty steel cage; before she could stop herself she was standing from her seat and _booking_ it to the door without bothering to ask permission to leave, nausea swirling in her stomach.

 

Once outside the classroom, she barely registered as her body broke into a jog, sneaker-clad feet slapping gracelessly against the linoleum, her erratic breaths echoing in the empty space as her lungs burned, absolutely desperate to make it through the double-doors at the end of the hallway.

 

Moments later, she was bursting through the doors and into the crisp Vermont air, gasping desperately for breath as large black spots danced in her vision and the trees began to spin in her periphery.

 

_Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe_ —

 

“Wanda?” 

 

She whirled reflexively around in a flurry of panic, clutching desperately at her breastbone as she staggered to regain her balance, her heart feeling as if it might just beat itself straight out of her chest—she was sure a punch was coming, or possibly the agonizing pain of an electrically charged cattle prod, or maybe she’d find herself dragged forcibly off for another round of horrendous medical experiments… But after a moment or two, her blurred vision finally registered a worried-looking Clint standing a few feet behind her in a purple T-shirt and jeans.

 

She desperately tried to form words, tried to explain to the boy that she was _fine_ (even though she clearly wasn’t), but she couldn’t speak, and it only caused her to hyperventilate further when she tried, lungs heaving desperately for a single breath of air that could make her feel like she wasn’t drowning anymore.

 

(She also felt a vague sense of concern making itself known in the back of her mind, and she prayed to a God she didn’t believe in that her eyes weren’t glowing bright red right now as they tended to do whenever she lost control of her emotions—but understandably, that particular worry easily took the back seat for the moment, because the consequences of exposing herself didn’t mean a single thing if she couldn’t fucking _breathe_ and ultimately hyperventilated herself to death.)

 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Clint’s gentle voice came from much closer than before, though he didn’t try and touch her—for that, Wanda was grateful. “I’m Clint Barton, and you’re Wanda. Wanda Maximoff. We met a couple days ago, when you came to Tesseract for the first time. This block, we have African-American Literature together… but you left, and I was worried so I followed, and right now we’re standing outside the ‘A' building of school. Don’t ask me why they didn’t bother coming up with something more creative. The time is,” he paused, probably to check his watch, Wanda thought dazedly, “1:34 in the afternoon, and the weather man this morning said it was partly cloudy with a 30% chance of rain—and I know a 30% chance isn’t _that_ much, but I still think he’s full of it, because there’s no way it rains a single drop with skies like these… I should write him a scathing review on Yelp for being so blatantly incompetent at his job.” 

 

He paused then for a moment, attentive blue eyes fixed on her as Wanda’s breathing came in short gasps—though she could feel her heart rate gradually beginning to slow, and small bursts of cool air forcing their way down her throat; Clint’s incessant rambling was definitely working. 

 

She turned her frantic eyes to meet his for a brief moment even as another wheeze escaped her battered lungs, silently trying to communicate that she wasn’t quite out of the woods yet—that she needed him to keep talking to her, because it was helping her more than she could say right now.

 

Clint just nodded ( _Thank God_ , Wanda thought), his face full of gentle understanding as he continued, “We’re in Vermont right now, and no matter what the Canadians say, you have to try our maple syrup. It’s _incredible_ —a religious experience, if I do say so myself.”

 

Slowly but surely, the pounding in Wanda’s head had begun to abate. 

 

“Speaking of,” he blathered on cheerfully, "I was gonna wake up early and make pancakes—Tasha taught me, cause she makes the best pancakes, and I’m really horrible at cooking… like, _really_ horrible. I burned water once, which I didn't think was even possible… But anyways, I woke up late this morning, which was kind of sucky, cause I think senior-itis is really starting to get to me. I also fell on my face a bunch of times on the way out the door, but don’t tell Nat, cause she’d just laugh. Long story short, I didn’t get my pancakes,” he finished with a tiny pout, his gaze still thoughtfully fixed on a rapidly calming Wanda without a hint of pity in his ocean-blue eyes. 

 

(She made a note to buy Clint his dumb fucking bird if he could get her through this, because he was handling her mental breakdown so gently and so goddamned _well_ , something she knew was the farthest thing from easy—God, she hoped he’d still be her friend after this.)

 

Wanda sucked in deep breaths of air in the blessed silence as her heart rate went down to something still vaguely concerning but distinctly manageable, her vision beginning to clear as she met Clint’s eyes and mustered up a tired smile. 

 

“Sorry about your pancakes,” she said hoarsely after another moment, her voice breathy but fairly controlled. 

 

(Truthfully she didn’t much care about the blonde boy's pancakes, but she was embarrassed as all hell and so _fucking_ sorry that she’d managed to drag Clint into her mental collapse when he’d never asked for such a thing to begin with, and she wanted more than anything to tell him so… but her throat still hurt, and her emotions were shot, and _Dammit_ , this was the best she could do right now. 

 

She just hoped he understood what she was trying to say.)

 

She fought the urge to sigh with relief as Clint nodded firmly back at her with only the barest hint of a grin on his features—he quite clearly seemed to sense that Wanda was trying to apologize for something bigger, not just the fact that he didn’t get to eat an obscene stack of pancakes soaked in Vermont’s heavenly maple syrup for breakfast like he’d planned.

 

“It’s okay,” he responded easily, blue eyes boring into hers. “Any time.”

 

This time, it was blatantly obvious to both of them that they weren’t talking about Clint’s unwitting raincheck on breakfast—and as electric understanding passed wordlessly between the pair, Wanda could feel something warm beginning to spread in her chest, something she was starting to become achingly familiar with since coming to Tesseract and meeting Natasha and Clint… something that felt suspiciously (— _blessedly_ —) like hope. 

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

“So… Natasha, huh?” Clint eyed her, wiggling his eyebrows goofily.

 

(They were still outside, backs leaned up against the cool grey cement of the school building as they talked—when Clint had asked her if she wanted to go back to class, she’d shaken her head emphatically, knowing very well she couldn’t take another second of sitting there and listening to Dr. Raina… not today. 

 

She didn’t want Clint to feel obligated to stay with her, though, and she’d told him as much. 

 

He’d just shrugged, a thoughtful look on his face. “That class fucks with my head, too,” was his quiet reply after a short pause as he crossed his arms against his chest—Wanda’s attention was again drawn briefly to the long white scars dispersed all up and down the golden skin of his arms, questions of how he'd gotten them swirling around in her brain. 

 

She thinks Clint might understand pain and being trapped and people who hurt kids just because they want to—it makes her ache with sadness for the innocent young boy he’d been before it all, but she’ll admit that she finds a sort of comfort in knowing that she’s not alone.

 

She thinks that maybe this is what it’s like to have a friend.)

 

“What?” she managed to choke out, doing her very best to feign ignorance. 

 

(Her very best wasn’t all that good.)

 

Clint had turned himself to face her fully now, one shoulder leaned casually against the concrete. “Don’t play dumb with me, you little minx,” he said with a wag of his finger, his blue-eyed gaze narrowing playfully. “You’re _into_ her.”

 

Wanda momentarily debated just continuing to deny everything, but after the past hour or so spent with Clint… she trusted him, she realized—enough that she didn’t want to hide. 

 

Instead, she let out a heavy sigh. “Is it that obvious?” 

 

Clint shrugged. “Not to her, probably… She has a very warped sense of self esteem—though I suppose I’m not exactly one to talk.”

 

“I wish she could see herself like I see her,” Wanda said quietly after a moment, the words falling from her lips before she could think to stop them. “She is beautiful.”

 

She didn’t dare turn to see Clint’s response to that, just fixed her gaze skyward instead, suddenly feeling far too vulnerable and exposed at her raw admission.

 

They were both silent for a moment. 

 

“You know, for what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure she likes you back.”

 

“Very funny,” Wanda said dryly, rolling her eyes even as a spark of hope flared in her chest at Clint’s words.

 

“I’m serious,” the boy insisted. “She’d kill me for telling you this—like, I’m serious, actually _kill_ me, ‘cause she’s basically a full-blown ninja—" Wanda chuckled at that, “ —but the way she looks at you… I’ve never seen it before, and Tasha and I have been close since we were kids.”

 

Wanda fought desperately to quell the feeling of hope beginning to swell in her chest as Clint spoke—she knew she couldn’t afford to do that again: to let herself _want_ for something so blatantly out of reach, only to watch it disintegrate before her very eyes. 

 

“Believe me,” Clint said then, pulling Wanda from her thoughts, “I don’t say stuff like this lightly, or because I’m some jackass who thinks it’s fun to watch people crash and burn.” He paused for a moment. “Just think about it, okay?"

 

Wanda let out a slow breath, various emotions warring within her brain. 

 

“Okay."

 

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“Alright, hotheads,” Natasha addressed Wanda and Pietro, hands spread. “Let’s talk.”

 

(Natasha had cornered the two of them promptly after school—Clint having run off to track practice, and Wanda having sufficiently recovered from her earlier bout of panic, in no small part thanks to the athletic boy currently out jumping hurdles around the football field. After establishing that the twins had nowhere else to be for the moment, the green-eyed girl had demanded that they both join her in the cool shade under the Beech tree next to the outdoor basketball courts to “chat" about Pietro and Tony’s turbulent meeting in the halls. 

 

Wanda was still too useless and hopelessly _gay_ to do anything beyond stare at the girl and stutter, her meltdown from earlier completely forgotten—thankfully, Pietro had reluctantly agreed for the both of them, rolling his eyes as he dragged Wanda to follow the redhead’s purposeful strut towards the courts.

 

They didn’t sit on the bench this time, and Wanda was glad for that—the bench felt… sacred, somehow, like something only she and Natasha shared. Which was stupid, she knew, because Pietro was her twin, and the most important person in her life—her literal other half. But the feeling was there just the same, and didn’t look to be leaving any time soon. 

 

So instead of the bench, they were seated in a circle amidst the lush expanse of grass around the base of the massive Beech—it felt comfortable, Wanda thought—safe.)

 

The Sokovian girl could practically feel the nervous energy coming off of Pietro from where he sat beside her. 

 

Natasha obviously took note of it too, if her softening gaze was any indication. “You guys don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to… I just want to understand so that I can _help_ you, because Tony Stark is not someone you want to be messing with around here,” she said softly, directing her words more towards Pietro, whose gaze was resolutely downcast as he fidgeted. “So, how do you know him?” 

 

Pietro remained stubbornly silent, and Wanda, not wanting to betray her twin’s trust, just looked at Natasha with pleading eyes—though pleading for _what_ , she wasn’t sure.

 

“I have an idea,” Natasha announced then, a thoughtful look in her eye. “Let’s do a question for a question. You ask me something, I ask you something. And if you really really don’t want to answer, you don’t have to. Sound fair?”

 

Pietro’s head had snapped up as Natasha spoke, clearly intrigued by the offer—and after a long moment of thought, the boy eventually nodded. 

 

“That sounds fair,” he said slowly.

 

Natasha smiled. “Wanda?”

 

“Works for me.”

 

“Okay,” Natasha spoke. “You guys can ask me something first.”

 

Wanda eyed Pietro, who had a determined look on his features, as if he already knew what he wanted to ask. The two of them were together in everything, though; she wasn’t surprised when her twin tilted his chin towards her, silently asking her permission to speak for them. 

 

She nodded.

 

“Who called you yesterday?” he asked sharply. 

 

_Well, shit_.

 

Wanda’s gaze darted quickly to Natasha, but the girl didn’t look all that surprised. Her nerves were only barely visible as a flicker of uncertainty pulsed momentarily across sea-green eyes, but she was quick to school her expression into something calmer as she dutifully met Pietro’s eyes.

 

“His name is Alexei Shostakov,” she explained, her tone measured and even (though noticeably lacking its typical degree of leisure). “He’s a friend of my father’s; I haven’t seen or spoken to him since I was 14. He was very… predatory—always taking pictures of me and asking my dad if he could take me out for ice cream, just the two of us. I definitely wasn’t expecting him to call, especially because I didn’t get a phone until I turned 15.” 

 

Wanda’s heart clenched at Natasha’s answer.

 

(She also couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling in her gut that told her the girl was holding something back… something bad. 

 

She certainly wasn’t going to ask—and besides, she had the sickening feeling that she wouldn’t much like the answer if she did.)

 

Pietro nodded beside her, seemingly satisfied with Natasha’s answer. “Your turn."

 

Natasha tilted her head. “How do the two of you know Tony Stark?” she questioned again.

 

Wanda placed a hand on Pietro’s knee, then, silently communicating to him that she would answer this one—after all, she’d already told Natasha the general details of their parents’ deaths.

 

At his answering nod, she took a deep breath, allowing her gaze to meet Natasha’s.

 

“Stark Industries built the Sokovian apartment complex our parents lived in, the one that collapsed and killed both of them,” Wanda said, as calmly as she could manage. "We did some digging, and found that Howard Stark had been notified beforehand that the materials were faulty, that they had a high risk of collapsing and risking the lives of the inhabitants… but still, he chose to approve the project."

 

"In addition to Howard Stark’s signature, though, they also needed the CFO to sign off—without the CFO’s approval, the project would be scrapped. Maria Stark was the CFO, but she was recovering in the hospital from a minor car accident. Tony was her proxy, and it was his signature that ultimately ensured the fates of our parents and the 6 other people that died in the accident.” Wanda paused then, anxiously fiddling with the rings on her fingers. “They were not good parents, not to us… but we loved them. And I know that Tony’s young, and he probably wasn’t fully aware of what he was agreeing to when he gave his signature… but the decision he made—it cost us everything. That’s why Pietro was so upset when we saw him today.”

 

Natasha let out a long breath. “I’m sorry,” she said, solemn green eyes darting from Pietro to Wanda and back again. “That’s not fair. Nothing about _any_ of this is fair.”

 

They were all silent for a long moment. 

 

“Can I ask another question?” Pietro asked then, directing his query towards both Natasha and his sister. 

 

Wanda nodded. 

 

Natasha just smirked. “That’s how the game works, bud.” 

 

Pietro’s lips quirked as he rolled his eyes. “Do you live with your father?” he asked curiously.

 

The green-eyed girl blinked. “I’m surprised Wanda didn’t tell you.”

 

“It’s not my story to tell,” Wanda said, shrugging impartially. 

 

Her heart fluttered at the small but genuine smile Natasha shot her in response. 

 

“Um, no,” Natasha spoke, reverting her gaze back to Pietro as she answered the boy’s question. “My father died when I was 14; he drank a lot.”

 

Pietro’s eyes widened. “I am sorry."

 

“Don’t be.” Natasha’s brow furrowed. “He was a bad man, and a worse father.”

 

There was a brief silence.

 

“Do you miss him?” Wanda found herself asking before she could think better of it, a blush spreading across her cheeks as Natasha’s green eyes darted up to meet hers. 

 

“Yea,” Natasha said, her voice scratchy even as her eyes remained dry. “Yea, I do.” She swallowed hard. “Okay, my turn: ‘Sparky'?” she asked, brow raised. "Thankfully, I got Tony to shut up pretty quickly about what he saw, but he was very… descriptive.”

 

… _Crap_.

 

Wanda felt Pietro tense at her side, and she turned to face her twin, desperate to know what was running through his mind; Pietro, for his part, looked about as lost she felt, if not more so, his dark brows knitted above wide hazel eyes.

 

Seeing their hesitation, Natasha spoke, “How about this? I tell you guys something that could get me in serious trouble with the government,” her gaze fixed on Wanda, "and you tell _me_ about ‘Sparky' over here,” she gestured nonchalantly towards the boy, “and whatever it is that you can do.” 

 

Wanda startled at that, not having expected her own abilities to be brought into question, especially when she hadn’t done a thing to hint at the glowing red power that simmered beneath her skin to anyone beyond Pietro… but she just nodded back at the girl with little hesitation—if Pietro was going to expose himself like this, she wouldn’t let him do it alone; she’d never make him do _anything_ like that on his own. 

 

Pietro, after eyeing his sister for a long moment, cautiously raised his head to meet Natasha’s eyes, pale face set with something like determination. “Who goes first?” 

 

“I will,” Natasha said. “I’d like it if you kept this private, obviously, but when my dad died… my mom left, too. Like I said, I was only 14, and she’s kind of a mess. She’d always been shit at holding down a job, so she wanted to keep collecting the benefits from the government for taking care of me after my dad was gone, even though she wasn’t. That way, she could support her drinking habit without having to work 9 to 5 six days a week like a contributing member of society.”

 

Natasha let out a small sigh, her gaze distant.

 

“Obviously foster care wasn’t an option unless I wanted my mom coming back and raining holy hell on me for cutting off her monthly checks, so I had to figure things out. And I still am—I live by myself in the house my dad used to own, lying on official documents when I need to so that Child Protective Services doesn’t come knocking. And at this point, I don’t want foster care. I’m lining up potential colleges for me and Clint, and I have this online business that’s done a lot to keep me afloat—I’ve almost made it." 

 

Natasha paused then, allowing the twins to process the load of information she’d just dropped on the two of them.

 

“Wow,” Wanda breathed out after a substantial moment, not even bothering to conceal the wonder and awe written plainly across her features. “That is… incredible. _You_ are incredible."

 

Natasha blushed slightly, clearly unused to such praise (Wanda made a mental note of that for later), but was quick to recover. “Well, I guess,” she shrugged. “It was either that or try and make it out on the streets.” 

 

Pietro was watching the redheaded girl with intense eyes, furrowing his brow as she spoke. “You should not downplay that, Natasha,” he said eventually, his tone serious in a way he rarely ever was. “The life you have built here, and doing it all on your own, that… That is no small thing.”

 

His kind words had Natasha blushing, like, _really_ blushing, for the very first time that Wanda had ever seen, the green-eyed girl ducking her head shyly and tucking her legging-clad knees into her chest in some desperate and completely futile attempt to hide herself, cheeks tinted pink. 

 

(Wanda was overcome with the sudden urge to wrap her brother in a crushing hug for the effect his words had on the redheaded girl.)

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Natasha said, voice muffled by her knees—then she was biting her lip and bringing her focus back up to Wanda and Pietro where they sat across from her with a slow smirk. “If I’m not mistaken, I do believe it’s your turn.”

 

(Again, Wanda couldn’t help the way her heart ached at how quickly Natasha always seemed to put herself back together after even the briefest moment of allowing herself to feel a hint of something _real_ —as if showing vulnerability would only serve to reveal all the more ammunition to break her, ammunition that far too many people had been all too happy to utilize in the past. 

 

It hurt Wanda to know that Natasha never let herself be sad or angry or anything other than perfectly composed—she knew that the cost of exerting that amount of sheer control over herself was likely unimaginable, that it probably hurt Natasha every day to hide as she did.

 

She deserved so much better.) 

 

Wanda turned to Pietro, cocking an eyebrow. “Do you want to take this one, or should I?” she asked, allowing a faint smile to spread across her features. 

 

“We will split it,” her twin replied easily, then turned to face Natasha again. “They altered me in a lab back in Sokovia. Experimental human trials. Basically, I can run fast… like, really fast,” his grin widened. “But I glow blue when it happens, so Wanda says I can’t do it in public.”

 

Wanda rolled her eyes at her twin as Natasha let out a small chuckle.

 

“I think Wanda might be onto something there,” the green-eyed girl spoke, a twinkle in her eyes as she grinned at Wanda. “I don’t know how chill everyone here would be with your whole… “ she gestured vaguely at a pouting Pietro, “thing.” She looked at Wanda. “And you?”

 

_Those gorgeous eyes might actually kill me one of these days_ , Wanda could help but think. _And honestly? I’ve made my peace with that_.

 

“Uh-I,” she stammered out, even as Natasha quirked a perfectly-manicured brow at her and— _God, that is not helping_ , she thought. “Um,” she coughed, trying to ignore the smirk Pietro was aiming at her as she gathered her thoughts (or, at least, _attempted_ to). “I can move things—like, telepathically?”

 

Natasha smirked. “Is that a question?” 

 

“Uh—Uh, no! No, I just mean..,” she trailed off, cheeks flaming, trying desperately to form a single coherent thought under the gaze of an amused-looking Natasha even as she positively itched to smack the infuriating grin off her twin’s face. “I, uh, can move things telepathically, and I can kind of, like, form neural links to people around me, if that makes sense—“

 

“She can read people’s minds,” Pietro informed Natasha with a deliberate nod.

 

Wanda sighed. “It is not mind-reading.” 

 

Pietro raised his eyebrows. “Not mind reading, my _ass_. Do you remember that time I was in science class and you were across the hall in maths, and after classes were over you—"

 

“Natasha _really_ does not need to hear this,” Wanda insisted.

 

Natasha raised a hand. “Natasha begs to differ, actually,” she said, an amused grin on her face. “Do continue, Pietro.”

 

Wanda glared at the boy. “Do _not_."

 

“She told me—“

 

“Pietro, I swear—“

 

“—that she did not want to hear about how nice I thought my science teacher’s ass was,” Wanda sighed heavily as her twin spoke, "and that I should ‘think more quietly next time.’”

 

“I’m going to kill you,” Wanda mumbled into her hands, which had come up to cover her face as Natasha chuckled across from her.

 

“So, what did this science teacher look like?” Natasha questioned, ignoring the muffled groan that elicited from Wanda. 

 

“He was very attractive,” Pietro rambled, “as in— _very_ attractive. _Oh!_ And very fit, too, cause he went running every morning—“

 

Suddenly, and without warning, Pietro’s mouth snapped shut, faint red tendrils of… something dancing along his abruptly closed lips even as he whipped his head around almost immediately to glare at his sister, muffled sounds of protest escaping him as his nostrils flared. 

 

Wanda, for her part, was idly watching her now-muzzled twin, eyebrow cocked in amusement as a thin hand danced swiftly in the air at her side, emitting a slight red glow from her fingertips in her careful manipulation of telepathic energy around Pietro’s jaw.

 

Her brother’s eyes darted briefly to double-check their surroundings, and then, seemingly satisfied that no one was around to witness his next move, promptly disappeared in a flash of crackling blue energy. 

 

“ _Dammit!_ ” Wanda hissed as the scarlet energy dissipated, unable to manipulate Pietro with it any further if she couldn’t _see_ him.

 

After a quick glance at a surprisingly relaxed Natasha, who was biting her lip in a failed attempt not to smile as she sat beneath the tree, there was another flash as Pietro’s figure blazed an electric blue trail over the grass just between the two girls, accompanied by a whoosh of air that had Wanda rolling her eyes in exasperation.

 

“Yoo-hoo!” a voice called, Natasha and Wanda turning their heads to see a smug Pietro standing in the grass not fifteen feet from where the two girls sat, just outside the shade of the Beech tree. 

 

He was holding something in his hand, Wanda noticed after a quick moment, a small metal trinket that glinted in the afternoon sun and—

 

Wanda quickly glanced down at her hands. _Shit_.

 

“Give me back my ring, asshole!” she yelled, brushing herself off as she stood to face him. 

 

He chuckled, flicking the ring a couple feet into the air with a metallic sound. “You will have to _catch_ me fi—“

 

In the blink of an eye, Pietro was letting out a loud _“Oof!”_ as a ball of glowing red light flung from Wanda’s outstretched hands slammed abruptly into the Flash logo on his chest, leaving the glinting silver ring still spinning in the air as the boy was thrown back at least 20 feet into the lush grass near the basketball courts. 

 

The airborne ring, meanwhile, was stopped by a thin wisp of ruby-red energy just inches short from falling into the ground, a victorious grin beginning to form on Wanda’s face as she willed it to hover quickly through the air and back to her—

 

There was another flash of blue dashing across her vision along with a swift rush of wind that broke her concentration (and therefore her spell); before she could react, the ring was snatched out of the air as the flickering blue energy of her twin zig-zagged inhumanly quickly this way and that across the open recess field, the boy clearly playing with her, before finally zooming to hide himself just behind the trunk of the magnificent Beech, trails of faint aqua-blue energy crackling in his wake. 

 

“Pietro, I swear to _God_ —“

 

“Pietro,” Natasha announced, inserting herself into the twins’ squabble. “If you don’t give your sister back her ring, I’ll never help you with another PreCalculus problem ever again.”

 

It was almost comical how quickly Pietro’s neon-blue visage zipped over to Wanda, the force of his momentum tossing her long brown hair clear behind her shoulders, then returned in the same superhuman fashion to appear at the side of a smirking Natasha. 

 

Wanda sighed in exasperation, but looked down at her hands—sure enough, all rings were both present and accounted for.

 

“Done!” Pietro announced, eyeing the redheaded girl beside him. “You were not being serious about never helping me with math again, were you?” 

 

Natasha adopted an overly thoughtful look for a long moment, then finally heaved a dramatic sigh. “I mean, I don’t know. My mind’s not quite made up yet,” she quirked an eyebrow. “I guess you’ll just have to be on your _best_ behavior from here on out.” 

 

A strangled sound escaped Pietro’s throat. “Hey, Wanda?” Pietro called out to his sister, who was still standing about ten feet away from the two of them. “I have changed my mind—I do not think I like this girl after all.”

 

Wanda caught Natasha’s sparkling green eyes then, a grin spreading widely across her features before she could think to stop it. 

 

“Too bad,” she replied as she approached them, her gaze still fixed on Natasha’s _beautiful_ smile. “Because I am getting kind of used to having her around.” 

 

Natasha bit her lip, the dimples on both cheeks showing beneath her high cheekbones ( _Lord, those dimples_ , Wanda thought) as she did. “Ditto,” the girl said softly. 

 

Pietro let out a loud groan. 

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of this, but especially the African-American Literature course bit, is taken from my own experience at my high school in my junior year... 
> 
> _The Red Record_ by Ida B. Wells is definitely a real text, and a fairly short one at that... but it sheds a ton of light on slavery in early American history and the actual accounts of absolutely horrible shit that went down, if you're interested at all in that kind of thing. 
> 
> Honestly, I definitely would never have read it if it hadn't been required for that class (and truthfully I didn't read all of it like I was supposed to; probably more like half), but it's definitely worth at least skimming through, because Wells' perspective is insanely intriguing and brutally honest, if not more than a bit hard to stomach. 
> 
> But like Wanda in the chapter, know your triggers: that class was really fucking hard for me to sit through, and like Wanda, I definitely had more than a few freak-outs at just how poignantly that cruelty reminded me of traumatic stuff from my own past. 
> 
> So stay safe, but I would encourage you to at least Google the book; it's super interesting :)


	9. phoenix, arizona... aka satan's sweaty asscrack (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint finally gets his pancakes.
> 
> Also, Natasha gets an e-mail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter.... as always, would love to know what you think of it!!!

Natasha doesn’t sleep lately—at least, not much, and never without the cuffs. 

 

The skin around both her wrists have become thick rings of mottled purple and blue bruising, a long scab beginning to form along the outside of the left one from where she’d struggled too hard one night, causing the unforgiving metal of the cuffs to slice painfully into her skin as she slept. 

 

(She remembers that morning—it was two days ago. She'd woken with dried blood trailing all the way up to her elbow and a matching fist-sized stain of it on her sheets, the coppery scent lacing the cool air as she fumbled groggily around for the keys to unchain herself.)

 

She’s relieved beyond words can say that she’s living in breezy Vermont (as opposed to somewhere like Arizona, also commonly known as Satan’s Sweaty Asscrack), where she can wear long-sleeved shirts year-round and have no one blinking twice at her about it.

 

(There’d been one college in Arizona she’d debated sending her and Clint’s applications to—Grand Canyon University, because even after considering the cost of bus tickets combined with the yearly tuition, it was still one of the cheaper collegiate options the two of them could reasonably attend in the States.

 

Then she decided that she didn’t hate herself or Clint _that_ much, because according to her research, it was genuinely possible to cook eggs on the sidewalk with or without a metal pan from the months of May to August, because that’s just how bloody hot it is over there.

 

She’d been skeptical of the whole ‘egg’ thing, though, so she’d done her own calculations—and as it turned out, those fuckers really weren’t lying about how miserably hot even the more pleasant parts of Arizona got during any season that wasn’t winter.

 

And to make the whole thing even _more_ unappealing, Grand Canyon University didn’t exist in one of these more ‘pleasant’ parts of the state—no, GCU was smack dab in the middle of Phoenix, with heat waves and droughts and 100-degree weather starting in the month of May.

 

Hard pass.)

 

And fine, maybe she _did_ miss her old band T-shirts, and the skimpy tank tops that never failed to give her a boost of confidence (they made her boobs look _so_ good)—but whatever. 

 

A small price to pay for her sanity, she supposed.

 

“Tasha?” 

 

Clint’s soft voice pulled her out of her thoughts. 

 

Natasha raised her brows, fixing her expression into something neutral as she gazed at him from where she sat cross-legged on the granite countertop in the Barton household. “Hm?”

 

The boy was standing at the heated stove wielding a metal spatula (always a dangerous combination), a frilly pink apron tied securely around his waist as he fixed her with one of his trademark pouts. 

 

“You’re supposed to be helping me _not_ burn the pancakes,” he said pointedly, then abruptly yelped as the batter in the pan crackled loudly, causing his entire body to recoil violently in response. 

 

Natasha’s lips quirked. 

 

“You seem to be doing just fine.” 

 

“Tashaaa,” Clint whined. “I didn’t get my pancakes this morning!”

 

“I’m sure that was very traumatic for you.”

 

The boy crossed his arms over the cotton-candy-pink apron, the indignant pout on his face deepening. “It _was_ , actually, thank you very much.”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Stop whining and flip your pancake—it’s about to burn.”

 

She watched amusedly as Clint squawked in response, whirling himself around to face the stove again as he desperately grasped the metal spatula in an outstretched hand—then, standing a good three feet away from the stove, began to poke and prod at the puddle of pale batter from afar as it sizzled in the pan, flinching with every crackling sound from the stove. 

 

_Christ_ , Natasha thought, letting out a heavy sigh as she jumped soundlessly down from her spot on the countertop. 

 

“Move over, you idiot,” she said with the barest hint of affection in her exasperated tone, snatching the spatula from the boy’s grip even as he scrambled away from the sizzling stove as if it might attack him at any given moment. She could feel Clint’s awe-struck gaze on her but ignored it as she expertly flipped the pancake with a satisfying _hiss!_ before wordlessly turning to thrust the spatula back into his hands and clambering swiftly back up to perch herself on the countertop.

 

“You know who would be nicer about this?” Clint asked as he waved the spatula carelessly around, not waiting for Natasha to respond as he said, “Wanda. _Wanda_ would be nicer about this.” 

 

Natasha quirked an eyebrow. “Wanda has yet to realize that you’re incapable of performing the most basic of daily tasks without endangering both yourself and everyone around you.” 

 

“Very funny,” Clint said dryly, rolling his bright-blue eyes. “I’ll have _you_ know that Wanda and I actually had a very nice chat today, and she was quite sympathetic to my plight.”

 

“The ‘plight’ here being no pancakes for breakfast?”

 

“Precisely.”

 

Natasha just scoffed quietly, allowing silence to envelop them for a brief moment along with the faint _hiss!_ of the pancake cooking on the stove.

 

“What’s your take on her?” she found herself asking quietly, eyes downcast.

 

(She typically wasn’t so forward—almost never speaking the thoughts that meant the most to her… but this was Clint, who was closer to her than any family she’d ever known.

 

Clint, who had never hurt her, or tried to coax her into his bed despite having been hopelessly single for as long as she could recall.

 

Clint, who was starting to make her believe that family didn’t have to be such a bad thing, after all. 

 

She could be honest for Clint.)

 

He furrowed his brow in response, though his wary eyes remained fixed on the stovetop. “Wanda?” 

 

Natasha pursed her lips. “No, the Virgin Mary— _yes_ , Wanda.” 

 

Clint grumbled indignantly under his breath for a moment, but didn’t reply.

 

Natasha just waited patiently, fiddling carefully with the bracelets on her sore wrists.

 

Eventually, the boy turned to face her with a thoughtful gaze; despite everything in her body screaming against it (she was famously poor at eye contact), Natasha forced her uncertain green eyes to come up and meet his.

 

“You like her,” he said, head tilted. It wasn’t a question.

 

“I don’t.”

 

“You do.”

 

"I _don’t_.”

 

“You _do_.”

 

There was a tense pause.

 

“Fine,” Natasha said, sighing quietly to herself. “So what if I do? It’s not like it matters.”

 

“Tash, getting you to admit that you like her just now was like pulling teeth. And I’m no dentist, but—" he cut himself off at Natasha’s glare, then crossed his arms against his chest, expression turning serious. "How can you _possibly_ say that it doesn’t matter? It very clearly matters to you—”

 

“She’d never like me too,” Natasha said, trying and failing to keep her voice even. “That’s why it doesn’t matter.”

 

“And how can you be so sure?” 

 

“For starters, she probably doesn’t even like girls.”

 

Clint’s eyebrows rose. “Have you asked her?” 

 

“No.”

 

“Then what gives? For all you know, she could be a big ol’ lady-loving lesb—“

 

“Finish that sentence, and I’ll kick your ass into next week.”

 

Clint promptly gulped it down. 

 

“Look,” he said, after Natasha’s glare had finally relented. “Whatever your brain is telling you, I know for a fact that Wanda likes you, at the very least, as a friend. And from the way she acts when you’re around, I’m willing to bet 50 bucks—"

 

“We both know you don’t have 50 dollars.”

 

“Fine, I’m willing to bet 5 bucks—“

 

“Better.”

 

“—that she wants more, too.”

 

They both fell silent at that, and Natasha bit her lip anxiously, hating how _hopeful_ Clint’s words were making her feel. She hated even more than she couldn’t hide it from Clint as his earnest gaze bored into her—hated that she couldn’t hide the cruel hope beginning to blossom in her chest, or the alarming reality of just how fucking _important_ Wanda had become to her over the span of a few pathetic days.

 

She thanked God when she inhaled the faint but unmistakable scent of burning pancake—the perfect distraction.

 

“Your pancake is burning.”

 

“NOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

She was stupid, she knows, to hope that Alexei might accept her earlier hang up in the park for the “Fuck off” that it was, even after she’d blocked his number soon after returning home that night—she was stupid to think that that might stop him from coming after her for good. 

 

She’s supposed to know better—she isn’t supposed to be this fucking _naïve_ … not anymore. 

 

But instead she’s staring at the dim screen of her laptop with nausea churning in her chest, feeling like she’s been sucker-punched—because _Fuck_. 

 

She doesn’t bother questioning how Alexei managed to get her e-mail—all students at Tesseract are given standard-issue accounts from freshman to senior year, so it probably wasn't exactly rocket science for him to glean that ‘natasha.romanoff@tesseract.org’ would get him into touch with minimal trouble. 

 

It’s hard to ignore the voice in her head telling her she should’ve _known_ to fortify her channels of communication the second Alexei got a hold of her cell, should’ve called Daisy over and insisted the girl make her nearly impossible to contact without invitation, because God _Dammit_. 

 

Instead she’s here, sitting at her desk at shit o’clock in the morning having only just woken up for school, eyes burning with tears as she stares blankly at the photo of a tiny redheaded girl she can barely recognize as herself naked and dirt-streaked and sobbing into the dingy mattress beneath her. She can scarcely breathe as she takes in the handcuffs around a younger Natasha's thin wrists, the mottled purple bruising around her pale neck, the hopelessly vacant look in dull green eyes. 

 

_Alexei always did love his pictures_ , she thinks bitterly, even as she struggles to breathe, wrists aching from both her self-inflicted confinement of last night and the unforgiving persistence of hellish memory.

 

Directly beneath the photo is two lines of text. “Please unblock my number, мышка. I would hate to be forced to use my treasured pictures of you for something beyond my own enjoyment." 

 

Her blood turns to ice. _Not again Not again Not again N_ —

 

She x-es out of the browser with shaking hands, then sprints to the bathroom, where she dry-heaves for the next 10 minutes—she never ate breakfast, and at this rate, she’s not planning to.

 

It vaguely registers in her mind, while she’s sprawled across the tile clutching the toilet bowl with trembling arms and sweat sticking her T-shirt to her back, that she’s not going to make it to school on time.

 

_Fuck_. 

 

It takes her another 20 minutes to peel herself up off the floor, the nausea slowly beginning to abate; it’s 8:10 by the time she manages to swap her sweat-drenched tee for a thin white long-sleeved sweater and a puff of perfume (she _really_ doesn’t have time for a shower right now), before she’s finally snatching her keys off the table with trembling hands and stumbling out the door. 

 

It was going to be a long day.

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> мышка ( _myshka_ ): mouse


	10. "the health benefits of habitual ejaculation" (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's gay, Vision is confused, and Clint still doesn't chew with his mouth closed.
> 
> Also, Natasha's sheer gayness for Wanda is making things... difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, kind of a short one... I have the next few chapters planned out, but beyond that, not so much. 
> 
> As always, feedback would be appreciated!!!
> 
> Updated: 4.12.19

With everything that’d been happening (a.k.a. the shitshow that had been her life for the past week or so), Natasha had completely forgotten about Pride the coming weekend… but whatever, because she was definitely still going to go, if not only for a very excited Clint, then primarily for herself—he'd forcibly dragged her the year before, and despite her best efforts to resist it, Natasha had felt so profoundly _empowered_ just being there and dancing and making half-shouted conversation with thousands of random strangers who were there to celebrate that being gay didn’t have to be a bad thing, no matter what a terrifyingly large portion of the world would have them believe.

 

Of course, she’d sincerely doubted she’d find it fun at first, much less ‘empowering’: crowds made her anxious, loud crowds even more so; she was sure that attending something as outrageously boisterous and rowdy as Pride would be essentially _asking_ for an absolutely devastating panic attack to descend full-force upon her—and she had enough of those on a weekly basis without issuing her signed-and-stamped invitation.

 

(She’d never officially been diagnosed with PTSD or C-PTSD, because therapists and talking about her past terrifies the shit out of her, but she’d be an idiot to believe that after years spent beaten and raped and abused by her father and his friends, she'd somehow managed to avoid coming out of it without adopting most of, if not all, the unfortunate symptoms associated with severe post-traumatic stress.

 

Natasha prides herself on not being an idiot—at least, not where this is concerned.

 

She did the research for all of it, extensively... as in, not just Wikipedia, or WebMD. No, she checked out various editions of the DSM—Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—from the local libraries, read academic papers online devoted entirely to symptoms and diagnoses that tended to accompany prolonged traumatic events of a sexual and physical nature; on top of all that, she'd also spoken to various psychological professors at the local college about related topics. 

 

To sum it up, Natasha went the whole nine fucking yards, desperate to ensure she wasn’t just another moron who researches their hopelessly vague symptoms on WebMD and ultimately walks away with the completely inane conclusion that they’re dying of Stage IV pancreatic cancer after a 5-minute search… which becomes even more pathetic when the reality of the situation turns out to be a common cold, or maybe food poisoning.

 

No, this was serious shit, because post-traumatic stress isn’t a joke—she can personally attest to that.

 

And as suspected, after a likely excessive amount of research, Natasha came up with the conclusion that her various issues all combine to make for something like a behavioral therapist’s wet dream: C-PTSD, anxiety, substantial bouts of depression, a splash of ADD, and in all likelihood, some low degree of DID, or Dissociative Identity Disorder… and those are just the ones she’s certain about.

 

Either way, though, those diagnoses mean business, especially the C-PTSD… which is a lot like regular PTSD, but way worse, because it’s not a single traumatic event you’re suffering from—it’s a lifetime of them. 

 

Put simply, C-PTSD symptoms include, but are definitely not limited to: hyper-vigilance, flashbacks at the most trivial of times, discomfort in response to loud and sudden noises, and a hell of a lot more she can’t list off the top of her head that would quite plainly rule out concerts and raves and Pride as a safe space for someone with her degree of mental fucked-up-ness.)

 

She’d never been so happy to have been wrong. 

 

Jumping on the dance floor with girls and boys (and those who identified as neither) she’d just met, sweaty bodies all around, obnoxious music pumping in her ears—it was as free as she’d felt in a long time, and she’d be a fool to take something like that for granted. 

 

“So when are we trying to go?” Daisy asked around a mouthful of food, and despite how gross it was to witness, Natasha felt far too exhausted to bother telling the girl to chew with her mouth closed—instead, she just focused on Wanda’s presence beside her, how the girl smelled like cinnamon and flowers, how content she could make Natasha feel simply by _being_. 

 

(Natasha had quite nearly fainted when she’d first seen Wanda that morning; the girl was wearing tight black leggings paired with a grey zip-up hoodie and matte black combat boots—which, in theory, doesn’t sound terribly distracting… but those leggings clung to her shapely legs like a second skin, and on top of that, she'd opted to zip up said hoodie only so far as to allow a dizzying and completely unobstructed view of milky white skin and the devastating curves of full round breasts along with the tiniest peek of the lacy black bra she wore beneath it all, which, Holy _shit_.

 

She was fairly positive she’d never been that attracted to anyone in her entire _life_ , not to mention how insanely inadequate Natasha felt as she stood there wearing her ratty dark-blue jeans and the long white sweater she’d haphazardly thrown on not 30 minutes earlier after sitting sprawled on the bathroom floor hacking up the meager contents of her stomach.

 

Needless to say, it took quite the effort on her part to pick her jaw back up from off the floor.)

 

“Can we go both days? Please?” Clint said, practically bouncing up and down in his seat between Pietro and Vision as his eyes darted pleadingly around the table. 

 

Natasha’s lips quirked. “Sure, buddy.”

 

“Yes!” the boy exclaimed, pumping his fist excitedly. 

 

“Okay, so who’s all going?” Daisy asked, voice still muffled around her food as she fiddled with the hem of her black V-neck tee.

 

“Me, Tasha, Vis, Maria, and you so far…,” Clint replied, counting on his fingers, a thoughtful look in his bright-blue eyes. “Brucie?” he questioned hopefully, turning to eye the boy in question a couple seats down.

 

Bruce looked up from his book ( _Astrophysics for People in a Hurry_ by Neil deGrasse Tyson; Natasha made a note to ask if she could borrow it from him later, no matter how unrelentingly Clint would probably tease her about it), the curly-haired boy biting his lip nervously as he adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He was wearing a light-green long-sleeved button-up today, the shirt a little wrinkled as always—but it looked good on him, Natasha thought.

 

“Maybe the second day,” Bruce mumbled eventually, returning his attention back to the book in his hands. “And only if there’s ice cream.” 

 

Clint beamed. “Done and _done_ , my guy!” He turned to eye Wanda and Pietro sitting on opposite sides of the round table, an almost painfully-wide smile still spread across his boyish features. “What about you guys? Fancy a trip to Gay rainbow-loving Paradise, otherwise known to most Catholics and Christians as the fiery pits of hell?”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes at that, but watched the twins with interest as they communicated wordlessly over the table, identical wry grins on both their faces. 

 

“I’d love to,” Wanda said eventually, and Natasha swore her heart skipped a beat right then because _God, her voice sounds like springtime. How does someone_ sound _like springtime? I have no idea, but it’s happening right now and Christ, it's attractive._

 

Pietro nodded, grinning toothily back at Clint. “I’m in.” 

 

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Daisy said, pausing briefly to make a show of swallowing the rest of her food and pointedly ignoring the displeased grimace on Maria’s face as she did. “Will you be attending this colorful event with us as queer-loving allies or as members of our flamboyant community?” Her eyebrows wiggled goofily as she eyed the twins with interest.

 

Natasha tried to disregard the flutter of anticipation in her chest as Wanda and Pietro eyed each other again from across the table and, seeming to be in agreement, gave the other the smallest nod. She hated that feeling, the one that felt dangerously like hope as it began to grow beneath her ribcage, her mind going near a million thoughts per second. 

 

_She’s probably not even gay, okay? She’s probably straight as a ruler! And you know, maybe she even has a boyfriend—_

 

“I’m a lesbian,” Wanda’s heavily-accented voice came from beside Natasha, quiet but firm. “So, a member, then, I suppose,” the blue-eyed girl finished with a small ( _adorable_ ) giggle.

 

_God, her accent is so cute and—_

 

Wait, _what?_

 

Natasha was positively dumbfounded, unable to stop her mind from spiraling at an alarming pace into a bout of pronounced Gay Panic™ (something she was becoming horribly familiar with since meeting Wanda Maximoff for the very first time)—she fought to keep her mouth from hanging obscenely agape and catching flies, but God it was hard, because _Did she just—? Did I hear that correctly?_

 

Wanda’s soft words echoed in her brain. _“I’m a lesbian”…. “lesbian” …. “I’m a”…. “lesbian”_

 

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

Holy _shit_. 

 

Wanda was _gay_. 

 

_Still doesn’t mean you have a chance in hell with her_ , her brain reminded her unhelpfully (or helpfully; Natasha was finding herself very torn at the current moment, not to mention entirely unable to continue fighting how insanely attracted she was to Wanda). 

 

“And I’m bisexual,” Pietro piped up, successfully ( _thankfully_ ) snapping Natasha from her thoughts. “Well, I mean—I mostly call myself pansexual, but people aren’t really acknowledging that that’s a thing, so I just go with bi.”

 

Natasha quirked a single brow at the boy’s rambling, her chest filling with warmth when a blush tinted his sharp cheekbones and he ducked his head shyly in response. 

 

“Nah, man, live your truth,” Clint’s stifled voice came around a mouthful of pasta (he spoke with his mouth full at every lunch period, no matter how often Natasha made it a point to threaten him with grievous bodily harm for doing so). “If you’re pan, then you’re pan.”

 

Maria hummed in agreement, though she kept her disinterested gaze focused unwaveringly downwards, one hand absentmindedly coming up to fiddle with the worn collar of her trademark leather jacket.

 

Pietro smiled. “Okay then: I am _pan_ sexual,” he said, a hint of pride underlying his tone that gave Natasha the sudden urge to affectionately ruffle the platinum-blonde hair on the boy’s head. 

 

_God, I’m getting soft_ , she thought.

 

Daisy winked playfully at both the twins. “I knew you guys were cool.”

 

“Ah,” Pietro said, the grin on his face growing steadily wider. “If we were straight, we would be exiled?” 

 

Daisy snickered into her milk carton. “Something like that,” she said, before taking a long gulp. 

 

“Reverse homophobia,” Wanda mused, a charming smirk on her pretty features. “I love it.”

 

Clint burst into laughter at that, Daisy grinning widely into her carton even as stray drops of milk dribbled down her chin. 

 

“They are not being completely serious,” Vision interjected then in his uncannily mechanical syntax, his features morphing into one of almost comical neutrality. “We are accepting of all sexualities here.”

 

Natasha bit her lip, trying hard not to laugh.

 

“I think they know that, big guy,” Clint assured Vis even as Wanda and Pietro both grinned amusedly at the lanky blonde boy.

 

Vis just shrugged inconsequentially in his perfectly-pressed navy blue Polo tee, his posture still ramrod straight as he returned his attention back to his lunch tray.

 

“What about you guys?” Wanda addressed the whole table curiously; Natasha felt a prickle of warmth spread through her body at how comfortable Wanda and Pietro were becoming around their group—a far cry from the painfully shy teens that had shown up at Tesseract for the first time.

 

“Well,” Clint said with his ridiculously large grin. “I’m pansexual—“

 

Pietro’s eyes lit up. “Pansexual bros!” he said happily, offering the blue-eyed boy beside him a raised hand for a high-five, which Clint eagerly slapped without hesitation. 

 

Maria rolled her icy blue eyes at the two as Natasha did the same. “And I’m a lesbian, too,” Maria said, offering Wanda a rare smile. 

 

Meanwhile, a nagging thought began to grow all the more pronounced in Natasha's mind at just how _well_ the twins were beginning to fit with the rest of them: one that said maybe this wasn’t temporary—that maybe _Wanda_ wasn’t temporary… and if Natasha was being honest with herself, the utter happiness she felt in every moment spent with Wanda was something she hadn’t known for a very long time, and God, she’d just grown so fucking _tired_ of fighting against it any longer, especially when she seemed to lose spectacularly every single time. 

 

“I’m gay.” Bruce’s soft voice brought her back to reality, though his eyes remained fixed on his book as he spoke. 

 

Natasha’s lips quirked. “I’m a lesbian as well,” she said lightly, dutifully refusing to let herself turn and see Wanda’s response to her admission.

 

Luckily, the table moved on quickly: in a manner of moments after Natasha had spoken, Daisy was raising her hand with a flimsy metal fork still in her grasp and drawing the attention of the entire table. “And I am the resident bisexual,” she said proudly, before a thoughtful look crossed her tanned features. “Though now that I think about it, I would totally date a non-binary person… There’s this one I met last year at Pride and holy _damn_ you guys, I was ready to climb them like a motherfucking _tree_ —“

 

“How necessary is it that we hear this?” Maria asked, heaving a sigh. “You do realize, you could have easily stopped after saying ‘I would date a nonbinary person’… We still would’ve gotten your point.”

 

The half-Asian girl's grin widened, a single brow raised as she brought both hands up to tighten the high ponytail of shoulder-length dark brown hair on her head. “Where’s the fun in that?” 

 

Maria sighed again, but didn’t bother responding as she used her fork to push a small mound of uneaten pasta idly across her tray.

 

Clint broke the brief silence with an enthusiastic pat on Vision’s back beside him. “Your turn, bud!” he announced.

 

“Ah,” Vision spoke, his blue-eyed gaze as unsettlingly constant as ever. “I am asexual.”

 

Daisy nodded along. “Asexuality baffles me—“

 

“A lot of things baffle you,” Maria quipped.

 

The dark-haired girl just rolled her eyes in response. “Yeah, yeah, very funny, Hill. But seriously: No sex? _Ever?_ How in the _world_ —"

 

“I simply don’t feel the desire to engage in such activities,” Vision supplied, and Natasha fought the immediate urge to snicker at how absurdly _formal_ the teenaged boy’s language always was, even when broached with the topic of sex. 

 

Daisy, meanwhile, looked absolutely flabbergasted. “Wait a sec,” she said, then whispered urgently (or, attempted to—it came out as more of a loud hiss): “So you’ve _never_ jacked off? _Ever?_ ”

 

Bruce groaned, his head hitting the spread pages of his book on the table with a generous _thump!_ , mumbling something into the book then that sounded suspiciously like _“Why me, Lord?”_ , though Natasha really couldn’t be sure.

 

In the meantime, Vision’s neutral expression hadn’t changed in response to Daisy’s brash question, which Natasha found quite remarkable; instead, he just tilted his head curiously at the girl, a thoughtful look on his features. “You are referring to masturbation, yes?” 

 

“Jesus Christ,” Maria muttered, bringing a hand up to rub tiredly at her forehead as an ecstatic Daisy nodding almost feverishly beside her. 

 

“Yessir, that’s the one."

 

“You really don’t have to answer that, Vision,” Maria said through gritted teeth. “Like, you _really_ don’t have to.”

 

“You should, though,” Daisy jumped in. “For science.”

 

Clint raised his carton of milk in assent as if it were a champagne flute at a business gathering, and Natasha fought the urge to snort. “For science,” he echoed, blue eyes dancing with amusement as he gulped down the rest of his milk.

 

Vision just nodded seriously, not seeming to pick up on the joking atmosphere as his brow furrowed in thought.”Well, Daisy, around the time I realized I was asexual, I did much research on the health benefits in adolescent males concerning habitual ejaculation—"

 

A loud sputtering cut off Vision’s solemn explanation as a red-faced Clint tried (and failed) to keep himself from spitting out the rest of his milk, Daisy bursting into laughter as the boy coughed and wheezed a mouthful of the liquid back up onto his tray.

 

Bruce still hadn’t peeled his face from the pages of his book as Daisy laughed uproariously; if anything, Natasha noted, he looked to be trying to burrow himself even further into its spine. Maria was sighing heavily as she rubbed at her temples (though Natasha could’ve sworn she saw the faintest hint of a smirk on the older girl’s features), Pietro had joined Daisy in snickering loudly at a still-gasping Clint beside him, and Wanda had clapped a delicate hand with neatly black-painted fingernails over her mouth in a desperate attempt to suppress her laughter—Natasha wasn’t faring much better, with a smirk on her face so wide that it almost hurt her cheeks. 

 

Vision, meanwhile, was looking around at them all in utter confusion, clearly at a loss as to how he’d elicited such theatric responses from the entire table.

 

_Poor boy_ , Natasha thought wryly to herself.

 

“I am a bit lost,” Vis said then, when Clint’s desperate hacking had finally subsided. “Did I say something wrong?” 

 

Daisy was breathing deeply to recover from her fit of laughter, a hint of redness showing through the ivory skin of her cheeks, but managed to say before anyone else could think to respond, “Of course not, Vis… in fact, I thought what you were saying was _super_ interesting—" Maria snorted then, which Daisy steadfastly ignored, “—and I would not mind at _all_ if you could tell us more about your whole... habitual… thing,” she finished, gesturing awkwardly with her hands.

 

Vis’s eyes lit up. “Habitual ejaculation?” 

 

Daisy was biting her lip hard, clearly finding it difficult to stop herself from bursting out laughing again, but did her best to do a convincing nod in response. “Yep,” she said, voice strangled as she fought to keep her facial expressions under control. “That’s the one.”

 

Natasha briefly debated joining Bruce and thunking her forehead down on the tabletop as well.

 

“Ah, yes!” Vision said, blue eyes glinting as they always did when he spoke about his research. "So I discovered that the average teenaged boy must regulate his exponentially-growing sperm count—“

 

_Riiiiiiing!!!!_ came the bell marking the end of lunch, punctuated by one emphatic “Oh, thank _God_ ” on Maria’s part and similar variations from the rest, all except Daisy practically singing praises of relief at being, quite literally, saved by the bell.

 

Turning slightly to a distinctly entertained Wanda, Natasha mumbled, “I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited to go to class in my life.”

 

The girl threw her head back and laughed in response (—Natasha swore the sound was like music to her ears). 

 

“I definitely agree with you on that,” Wanda replied, then tilted her head at Natasha with a hint of shyness in blue eyes (that Natasha just now noticed were dotted sparingly with beautiful spots of hazel, which, Holy _shit_ ). “Walk you to class?”

 

Natasha thinks her heart probably stopped when Wanda asked that, because everything in her was screaming that she’d heard wrong, that it was just her wishful thinking playing an obscenely hurtful trick on her, that there was no way Wanda had just asked to walk _Natasha_ , of all people, to her next class.

 

(She was also having considerable trouble with not letting her eyes wander down the sinfully low neckline of Wanda's barely-zipped up hoodie—and if the knowing smirk on the Sokovian girl’s face was any indication, she wasn’t doing all that well… but whatever.)

 

“U-Uh, yes,” she stuttered out before the moment could pass as she forcibly tamped her disbelieving thoughts down, then cautiously lifted her head to meet Wanda’s warm blue-eyed gaze. “I’d like that.”

 

“Good.” Wanda’s smile widened as she rose from her seat, offering a hand to a still-sitting Natasha. “Shall we?” 

 

Suddenly, Natasha’s mouth felt painfully dry, because _Holy shit, is this real life?_ “Um, sure,” she managed to say dumbly, scolding herself for being so incapable of speaking in Wanda’s presence as she took the girl’s proffered hand.

 

They began to walk, then, Natasha trying not to stumble as Wanda led the way out of the cafeteria, their hands still blessedly joined, Natasha’s heart beating at a ridiculously fast pace. 

 

Once the pair had made it through the double doors and into the scarcely-populated adjoining hallway, Wanda turned to Natasha with a smile, still gripping her hand tightly. 

 

“I forgot to tell you something,” the taller girl said, eyes still on Natasha’s as they began to walk side-by-side down the hall; Natasha swore she could hear her heart hammering in her chest. “I wanted to say that you look beautiful today.”

 

Yep. That did it. 

 

Moments later, Natasha was stumbling like an idiot over her own feet, only barely managing to catch herself from face-planting firmly on the linoleum flooring as Wanda circled both her arms unflinchingly around Natasha's body—which only served to further Natasha’s sudden inability to function, even as the redheaded girl knew Wanda meant well, because suddenly the entire length of the other girl’s body was pressed firmly against hers, and it was ridiculously intoxicating and Natasha's traitorous thoughts were rapidly coming up with so many different and very _not_ platonic scenarios that might feature Wanda and Natasha in a similarly compromising position, and— _Oh God_. 

 

Then Wanda was giggling in her ear, breathing warm puffs of air onto her skin that made Natasha’s entire body shiver reflexively even as heat began to pool lower and lower in her belly—it was all combining to create a sensation so electrifying and unique but utterly _foreign_ to Natasha, having never experienced anything like it before. 

 

Natasha had never been more at a loss for words in her entire life.

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗


	11. you know i'm no good (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha can't stop staring at Wanda, but luckily, she doesn't mind. 
> 
> The two of them hang out ;)
> 
> Also, Natasha's got issues and Wanda sucks with computers.

Wanda was having a good day: Clint had invited her and Pietro to Pride, she’d found a cheap motel a couple miles from Tesseract that the two of them could stay in when they were evicted next week, and to top it all off, Natasha couldn’t stop staring at her boobs, making Wanda about 95% certain the redheaded girl was into her.

 

She’d never admit it, but the entire purpose of her slightly revealing outfit today had been to test that exact theory—and though she doesn’t often show much skin in public anymore, the snake people (for the most part) had left very minimal scarring around her breasts and collarbones, making low necklines a prime choice for a day like today. 

 

(She’s not stupid, though—she knows those men abstained purely because they thought those feminine parts of her were sexy and therefore somehow “worth preserving" in their twisted minds, and there’s a part of her that still burns with anger at how blatantly they used those parts of her as excuses for their repulsive objectification... but to a certain degree, she’ll admit she’s somewhat grateful for it anyhow—especially if now it gives her the means to make Natasha react like _that_.)

 

Wanda was slightly concerned about the shorter girl, though—every time her phone buzzed, she eyed the device like it was an armed explosive that might detonate at any given moment; and on the whole, she seemed a hell of a lot more jumpy than she normally was (though admittedly, Wanda’s frame of reference for what constituted as ’normal Natasha behavior' was fairly limited as of yet). 

 

Still, it wasn’t all bad: Wanda had noticed that when the two of them were together, alone, Natasha became decidedly softer around the edges. Relaxed, almost… despite being a little flustered now and then, but Wanda just found that incredibly adorable, especially considering it was normally right after Wanda told her how _smart_ she was, how _strong_ , how _beautiful_.

 

(Yeah, Wanda could definitely get used to Natasha being that kind of flustered around her.)

 

Like the end of lunchtime, when Wanda had asked if she could walk Natasha to her next class—initially, the girl had worn an almost comical expression of utter shock on her features (Wanda filed that away for later with a twinge of sadness), before a pink blush was spreading quickly across her cheeks as she stumbled her way through something vaguely agreeable in response. Wanda had just laughed, offering Natasha a gentle hand (which she quickly took) and leading her out of the cafeteria without a second thought.

 

And when Wanda told Natasha she looked beautiful today? 

 

… Well. 

 

Had Wanda known that verbalizing the simple thought she’d been positively bombarded with since meeting the girl for the very first time would land her with an armful of an intensely blushing Natasha pressed firmly against the length of her body… well, let’s just say that she’d have done it a lot sooner.

 

Eventually, when they’d finally reached the Chemistry classroom where Natasha had her fourth block (Wanda kept a guiding hand on Natasha’s back the rest of the way there, only halfway joking when she’d said it was to ensure the smaller girl didn’t have another fall), it didn’t seem like she was chucking a prayer-fueled Hail Mary down the field ( _Ugh_ , a sports reference—she’d been spending far too much time with Pietro) when she asked if Natasha might like to go somewhere with her after school, just to talk and maybe grab some food. 

 

Natasha had blushed _again_ , which was quickly becoming one of Wanda’s favorite looks on her, giving a shy nod with an almost whispered “I’d really like that” before she was scurrying into the classroom, books clutched adorably against her chest as if they were nuclear launch codes rather than doodle-ridden chemistry notes. 

 

_Yeah_ , Wanda thought. _I could definitely get used to this_. 

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

“Hey,” Natasha greeted her warmly, clearly having regained her composure from the last time they’d spoken (which was only slightly disappointing), sliding into place next to Wanda on the bench beneath the Beech tree. “How was Digital Art?” 

 

Despite how happy she was to see Natasha again, Wanda immediately rolled her eyes in response, vividly recalling just how poorly her last block class had gone. “I’m so terrible with computers,” she groaned self-deprecatingly. “I can check my e-mail and, like, Google things, and that’s about it.”

 

“So I guess you’re not the next Steve Jobs,” Natasha said, chuckling softly as Wanda promptly fixed her with a _'No shit’_ expression. “If you’re interested, I could help you… I’ve been teaching myself computer stuff since forever.”

 

“Really?”

 

Natasha’s grin widened, her green eyes sparkling happily. “Duh.” 

 

“You should definitely think about that _way_ more thoroughly,” Wanda stated, lips quirking. “I’m very serious about how clueless I am—I didn’t know what a ‘meme’ was until about a month ago.” 

 

Natasha bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “You poor, poor soul.”

 

Wanda raised an eyebrow. “So I’ve been told.”

 

After a brief pause, Natasha spoke again, “I’m serious, though, about helping you.”

 

“I don’t want to waste your time,” Wanda protested lightly, a hint of genuine insecurity creeping into her tone despite herself. 

 

The redheaded girl tilted her head at that, her bright green eyes filled with gentle understanding. “You wouldn’t be. I like spending time with you,” Wanda’s heart fluttered, “and I want to help… Okay?”

 

“Okay."

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

On the drive over, Natasha must’ve asked her at least five different times if she’d like to plug her phone into her car's auxiliary chord and control the music, each of which Wanda had replied to with a solid “No."

 

(She did find it adorable that Natasha kept asking—though there was a part of her that suspected Natasha’s insistence was born more out of a survival instinct she’d developed to keep those around her happy and therefore avoid their anger rather than anything else.

 

She hated that.

 

She never wanted Natasha to be afraid of her.)

 

Additionally, though, Wanda wanted to know things about Natasha, from her favorite childhood memory to her favorite color to the most-played song in her music library—music could tell you a lot about a person, especially without getting overtly personal… which seemed as good a place to start as any with Natasha, especially considering the mood she’d been in lately.

 

And as Natasha drove along her everyday route back to her house with Wanda in the passenger’s seat, she certainly didn’t regret her refusal to take take Natasha up on her offer (not to mention, she and Pietro had never been all that into music—their combined library had about 300 total songs): 

 

From just the 20-minute ride to the girl’s house, Wanda discovered that Natasha had a beautifully diverse collection of music that spoke to so many hidden parts of her personality, the most notable songs thus far having been "You’ll Be In My Heart" from Phil Collins (featured in the popular animated American film _Tarzan_ , according to a grinning Natasha), Amy Winehouse’s “You Know I’m No Good,” and “Already Home” by A Great Big World (which Natasha claimed was “criminally underrated,” something Wanda was inclined to agree with her on).

 

(Wanda made a mental note to download all of them as soon as she got home.)

 

By the time Natasha had pulled the car carefully into the driveway of a fairly well-kempt one-story house and disconnected her phone from the speakers, Wanda couldn’t help but feel a wave of disappointment wash over her that they couldn’t have driven for longer, just talking and listening to Natasha’s music.

 

She liked Natasha’s home, though, at least from what she could see thus far—the walls built with cemented red bricks of varying shades, dark-grey shingles making up a conventionally slanted roof, and a small but lush yard out front partitioned only by a smooth cement walkway leading up to a forest-green-painted front door. 

 

Lost in her observations, it took her an embarrassingly long time to notice that Natasha had gone from the car, and was now standing on the front porch of her home, beckoning for Wanda to join her… And suddenly Wanda couldn’t have cared less about brick walls or roof shingles or not being able to listen to Natasha’s playlists any longer, not when the exhilarating promise of time spent alone with Natasha just feet away from her.

 

Standing on the front steps, though, Wanda could see Natasha’s hands shake slightly as she fumbled with her keys—after a second or two of deliberation (and Natasha still failing to fit her key into the lock), Wanda reached her hand out to place atop the other girl's, a pang of worry reverberating in her chest as she felt the icy skin beneath her fingertips. 

 

“Hey,” she said softly, inwardly letting out a sigh of relief when Natasha allowed Wanda to take both of her still-trembling hands in her own. “What’s wrong?”

 

Natasha’s eyes darted up to meet hers for a moment, an unmistakeable flicker of fear flashing in her gaze as the redheaded girl bit her lip anxiously. 

 

Wanda waited as the silence stretched on, but Natasha still didn’t respond, even as her cold hands shook silently in Wanda’s.

 

“We don’t have to stay here,” Wanda offered after a little while. “We can go somewhere else.”

 

At that, a sort of recognition flashed across Natasha’s features, and she let out a slow breath. “It’s fine,” she said, shaking her head to clear her thoughts, voice scratchy. “I just… I had a bad morning,” she paused for a moment, her gaze distant. “Memories.” 

 

Wanda nodded in understanding because _God_ , did she understand… though it still didn’t sound to her like the full story. But either way, that was Natasha’s business—not hers. 

 

“Are you sure?” Wanda asked. “We can go to the park and talk, or… McDonald’s and clog our arteries—Pietro does it all the time.”

 

Natasha chuckled at that, though Wanda noted that she still looked exhausted. “It’s like I said… I want you to know me.” 

 

Without another word, Natasha turned again back to the green-painted door, keys in hand, still marginally unbalanced—though this time she managed to successfully unlock the deadbolt with fairly little trouble, instinctively turning the knob and making her way in as she gestured for Wanda to follow.

 

_Here goes nothing_ , she thought.

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

“I’ll cook us something,” Natasha called over her shoulder as Wanda followed her into the modest kitchen space—with hardwood flooring and a dark-grey granite countertop that bordered cream-colored cabinets. “What are you in the mood for?”

 

Wanda allowed herself a tiny grin. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

 

A light blush spread across Natasha’s cheeks as she hauled herself up to sit cross-legged on the granite countertop, Wanda easily moving herself to lean opposite the redheaded girl. “I’m not amazing at it, or anything." 

 

Wanda raised a brow. “You’re not the best at taking compliments, are you?” 

 

Natasha blushed even deeper, giving Wanda a thrill of satisfaction. “I guess not,” the green-eyed girl mumbled, ducking her head bashfully. 

 

“What’s your favorite thing to make?” 

 

Natasha bit her lip, eyes darting back up to meet Wanda's. “You’d laugh.”

 

“I wouldn’t.”

 

“You definitely would.”

 

“Cross my heart.”

 

Natasha sighed. “Kraft mac and cheese,” she mumbled eventually. “But it has to be the Spongebob-shaped kind.”

 

Warmth erupted in Wanda’s chest at that, because seriously, how could someone be that _cute?_ “That’s _adorable_ ,” she said softly, unable to stop as her legs moved seemingly of their own accord, bringing her closer to where Natasha sat and placing their faces only inches apart.

 

The redheaded girl just rolled her eyes even as her breath hitched in her throat at Wanda’s close proximity. “I’m glad you think so.”

 

_God, her eyes_ , Wanda thought, barely hearing Natasha’s response. _And her lips. And… well, everything. Wow. I really want to kiss her. Is now a bad time to ask? Because_ —

 

“Can I kiss you?” Wanda found herself blurting out before she could exercise even the barest amount of restraint, Natasha’s brows lifting in surprise as warmth spread in Wanda’s cheeks and _Oh my god, I cannot believe I just said that_.

 

There was a brief silence, and Wanda was sure she’d gone and ruined everything… but something about that moment, about the way Natasha was gazing back at her with something like awe sparkling emerald eyes, kept her standing there making unwavering eye contact just inches away from the most beautiful girl she’d ever seen, rather than promptly turning on her heel and fleeing like she so desperately wanted to.

 

And then Natasha was carefully leaning closer in lieu of verbal response and pressing her full lips firmly against Wanda's, one hand coming up to rest on the taller girl's jaw as time seemed to literally stop—and suddenly running away was the last thing on Wanda’s mind, because Natasha’s hands were cupping her jaw and they were kissing and Natasha was letting out the softest of moans from sinfully parted lips and Oh my _God_ , they were _kissing_.

 

She’s not sure how long they stayed there—Natasha sitting on the counter with her arms wrapped around a still-standing Wanda’s neck as their lips locked and Wanda's hands carefully rubbed at the jean-clad skin of Natasha’s thighs in soothing patterns—but it wasn’t nearly long enough, because all too soon she could feel Natasha consciously tapering off their soft kisses, and Wanda was quick to follow her lead (albeit a little reluctant)… she knew they had to talk about what had just happened.

 

“Wow,” Natasha breathed against Wanda’s lips when they finally parted for air, the other girl's nose tickling where it brushed against her own.

 

Wanda giggled. “Ditto.”

 

“Are you…” Natasha said then, biting her lip nervously as she looked up at Wanda with a hint of poorly-masked desperation in her eyes (—God, Wanda’s heart _ached_ for her). “Do you want this to be a one-time thing?” 

 

Wanda furrowed her brow. “No… do you?”

 

“No, of course not!” Natasha managed to get out, stumbling over her words in adorable fashion. “I just—I didn’t want to assume—You know, maybe you don’t even like me like _that_ and that’s okay I just—"

 

“Natasha, slow down, okay?” Wanda interrupted her gently, allowing her hands to continue tracing patterns into Natasha's jean-clad thighs. “I like you… a lot. I’ve wanted to do this,” she lifted one of her hands from Natasha’s thigh to gesture vaguely between the two of them “since I met you that very first day I came to Tesseract.”

 

Natasha looked stunned, her mouth slightly agape. “You… I… Really?” 

 

Something beneath Wanda’s ribcage clenched painfully at the girl’s response. “ _Yes_ ,” she said emphatically. “If anything, I should be asking _you_ if you’re sure you like _me_ back.”

 

Almost immediately after Wanda spoke, Natasha was shaking her head feverishly from side to side with wide eyes, her pert nose again brushing up against the taller girl's as she did. “No—I—What? You’re _perfect_ , and I… I already like you so much, so much that it scares me… a lot,” she finished her rambling, cheeks flushed. 

 

(Wanda thought her heart might explode with the sheer _affection_ she felt for Natasha.) 

 

“I can work with that… and if it makes you feel any better, I’m scared too.”

 

Natasha smiled, and _God_ , she looked beautiful. “We can be scared together." 

 

“I like the sound of that,” Wanda said with a soft grin, raising a hand to tuck a stray lock of auburn hair behind Natasha’s ear and reveling in the warmth of the skin beneath her fingertips. 

 

Wanda was positive she hadn’t felt this happy in years as Natasha looked up at her with something akin to childlike wonder sparkling in those emerald-green eyes—and she was just about ready to hex blast someone when they were promptly interrupted by the buzzing of Natasha’s phone lying facedown on the counter beside the sitting girl, the urge only strengthening when the sound caused Natasha to recoil violently in Wanda’s arms and let out a small yelp as if she’d been stung.

 

“Everything okay?” Wanda questioned as Natasha snatched her phone off the counter with trembling hands, a wild and scared look in the girl's eyes as she stared almost blankly at the most recent notification on the dimly lit screen.

 

Wanda didn’t want to invade Natasha’s privacy (thereby betraying the fragile implication of trust beginning to grow between the two), and so she didn't; instead, she dutifully kept herself from peeking at the message (or the sender)… but from the way Natasha’s entire body had gone unnaturally stiff in response, she knew it wasn’t good. Like, _very_ not good.

 

“Natasha?” she tried again when she was met with silence. “What’s wrong?”

 

The girl didn’t respond as she allowed the phone to clatter from her grip back onto the granite countertop, brokenly murmuring something under her breath in Russian (or, at least Wanda _thought_ it was Russian), her lower lip trembling as she refused to meet Wanda’s eyes.

 

“Natasha?”

 

“I…” Natasha eventually spoke, quiet and shaky. “I—You need to go. Please.” Her voice cracked on the last syllable.

 

Wanda was quiet for a moment. 

 

“If that’s what you want, I understand… But can you promise me you won’t hurt yourself if I leave?” 

 

“I don't… I don’t know,” Natasha took a deep and shuddering breath, still not meeting Wanda’s gaze as she fiddled with her fingers in her lap. “Maybe.”

 

Moving slowly so as not to startle the girl, Wanda stepped back slightly, then crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I’m sorry, Natasha, but ‘maybe’ isn’t good enough. I want you to be safe.”

 

“I’ll be fine.”

 

“ _Please_ don’t lie to me.”

 

The redheaded girl didn’t respond to that.

 

“Tell me what you need right now,” Wanda urged.

 

Natasha’s shy green eyes darted quickly up to Wanda then back down to her hands. “‘M tired,” she said finally, her voice muffled.

 

_Good_ , Wanda thought. _Tired; I can work with that_.

 

“Okay,” she replied softly. “Let’s go to bed, then.”

 

The effect was immediate—Natasha’s hands stilled in her lap, every muscle in her body seeming to tense up, those emerald-green eyes filling with absolute terror as they came up to meet Wanda’s.

 

“You.. You want to go to bed?” she asked, voice trembling. 

 

Wanda just stared back at the girl, utterly confused and more than a little bit concerned for her but still not completely understanding—

 

Oh. It hit her.

 

_Oh._

 

Oh my _God_ —Natasha thought Wanda was trying to make her have _sex_. With _her_. Right _now_.

 

She fought to keep the utter disgust from showing on her features as it clicked in her brain, waves of nausea hitting her with overwhelming force; she barely noticed her eyes beginning to glow scarlet as white-hot rage threatened to overtake her—rage for whoever had hurt Natasha this badly, made her believe that it was _normal_ somehow to be forced into _sex_ of all things, rage for—

 

“I-I’m sorry!” Natasha’s terrified babbling interrupted her thoughts—it was then that Wanda noticed the other girl’s entire body was trembling. “I’ll go—We can go right now—I didn’t mean to talk back I promise, I’ll make you feel good I—“

 

“Natasha,” Wanda cut her off as firmly as she could manage, even as she fought the urge to empty the contents of her stomach into the sink and focused hard on making her eyes go back to normal—clearly, the flashing red in her normally-blue irises had scared the other girl. “We’re not—I don’t—That’s not what I meant,” she finished hastily, stumbling on her words, completely at a loss as to how to handle the situation before her.

 

Natasha’s brow furrowed, though her gaze remained heart-wrenchingly cautious. “What?” 

 

Another stab of red-hot anger penetrated Wanda’s chest then at Natasha's confused expression: anger that Natasha had been so abused so horribly the prospect of _not_ being forced to have sex with someone was more surprising than the alternative; anger that this had clearly happened to the other girl countless times before, so much so that she’d come to expect it from _Wanda_ , of all people, whom she’d only met a week ago; anger that some jackass (or multiple jackasses) used and hurt Natasha so badly that she didn’t think her consent mattered anymore, that the only thing that mattered was pleasing the people around her so that they inflicted as little pain upon her as possible. 

 

_Fuck_ , Wanda thought, fighting hard to make the scarlet energy gathering beneath her ribcage stay put—she didn’t want to scare Natasha again. 

 

“We’re not going to have sex,” Wanda stated after taking a long moment to compose herself, fighting to keep her voice calm. “That’s not why I’m here.”

 

If possible, Natasha looked even more lost at Wanda’s words—her eyebrows coming together in a thoroughly bewildered expression (—one that Wanda might have found cute under _literally_ any other circumstance, but right now was just breaking her heart). “Then why _are_ you here?” 

 

Wanda sighed at how timid the other girl’s voice was, as if she was terrified Wanda might be angry with her for daring to ask a simple question. “I’m here because I care about you, Natasha, and you said you were tired, so I would like you to get some sleep.”

 

“So… no sex?” 

 

Wanda let out another sigh. “No. Definitely no sex.”

 

“Oh,” Natasha said, nodding to herself slowly—it was clear she didn’t completely trust what Wanda was telling her—but she wasn’t actively freaking out anymore, or promising she’d make Wanda feel good (Wanda wasn’t going to be able to eat anything without throwing it back up for a good 24 hours after this)… so she supposed that that was as good a start as any. 

 

“Okay?” 

 

Natasha’s eyes were wary, but she nodded decisively in response. “Okay.”

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, feedback would be super helpful to me!! And if you don't wanna comment here, you can reach me on tumblr @ultralightdumbass (not a fandom blog)... Hope you liked this chapter :)


	12. hit me baby one more time (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kids go to Pride!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter... Again, would love feedback on any of it!

“Are you mad at Wanda?”

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me."

 

Natasha sighed. “I’m not mad at Wanda, Clint.”

 

“Then why is Pietro telling me you’re ignoring her?”

 

“Ignoring is a strong word.”

 

“It’s really not.”

 

“I refuse to be sober for this conversation,” Natasha mumbled, reaching into the backseat of her car for the bottle of 80-proof vodka she’d grabbed before they left. 

 

(It was Pride weekend, finally; Natasha and Clint were parked just a couple blocks down from Battery Park, having planned to pre-game together before meeting Daisy, Vis, and the twins at the entrance. 

 

Natasha supplied the alcohol, of course, and Clint… well, Clint was just along for the ride.)

 

Ignoring Clint’s expectant gaze upon her, she placed two shot glasses on the dashboard, unscrewing the bottle and forcing herself to focus solely on pouring them each a shot of the clear liquid—maybe if she just ignored it altogether, the excitable boy might take the hint and move on.

 

“Seriously, Tash, what happened?” 

 

She supposed that hoping he might drop it was a touch too optimistic on her part.

 

Natasha pursed her lips, taking the filled shot glasses in her hands and wordlessly offering one to Clint. “Bottoms up.”

 

Clint rolled his eyes at her but complied, the two of them downing the bitter alcohol in sync—Clint letting out a loud gasp afterwards as he shook his head wildly from side to side, face scrunched in distaste. “Gross,” he whined.

 

“Well, budge up—3 more to go.”

 

Clint groaned.

 

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“Hey idiots!” Daisy yelled across the street from the sidewalk, Vis standing awkwardly beside her (he was a good half-foot taller than the small Asian girl) as the twins conversed with bowed heads a few feet behind where the two were standing.

 

Natasha grinned in response, the dizzying warmth of the alcohol gathering in her chest and successfully dulling the nerves that threatened to overcome her at the prospect of seeing Wanda again.

 

The feeling of contentment was fairly short-lived, though: Moments later, she had to tug Clint back by the collar of his black rainbow-striped T-shirt when he tried to cross the street and greet Daisy without checking both ways, the boy stumbling and giggling to himself even as the driver of a large red Ford pickup zoomed past yelling a very colorful string of profanity at the pair of them out his window.

 

Natasha rolled her eyes but didn’t bother scolding Clint for being so persistently oblivious, just hooked an arm in his and dragged the boy through the crosswalk when the light finally turned red—Drunk Clint was always a bit of a handful.

 

It was a pleasant 55° F outside, the sun making it feel more like 60° as gusts of cool wind blew this way and that—perfect Vermont weather for a long day outdoors, Natasha mused as she and Clint approached Daisy, a flicker of panic in her chest as she unwittingly made eye contact with Wanda and—

 

Woah.

 

_Woah._

 

Wanda looked… she looked…. 

 

_Woah._

 

Natasha briefly wondered what she’d done in her past life to deserve such a blatant test of her already strained self-control, because the other girl was wearing a tight-red crop top that revealed a sinful amount of the pale toned skin of her abdomen (littered with many faint white scars in various stages of healing, causing a sort of anger to flare in Natasha’s chest that took her completely by surprise) and a pair of _very_ short ripped jean shorts (Clint would call them ‘jorts,’ Natasha thought to herself with another eye-roll) that showed off her beautiful and likewise scar-littered legs. 

 

And to make matters even _worse_ (or better? Fuck, Natasha didn’t know what to think anymore), Wanda had also opted to wear positively jaw-dropping white knee-high stockings on long milky legs with spatters of little rainbow hearts sewn into the ankles, perfectly matched by the worn white Converse on her feet and _Holy Mother of God, I’m too gay for this_. She had on light eye makeup with the barest hint of gloss on perfect pouting red lips; her chestnut hair was down in long loose curls and it looked… God, it looked so soft, and perfect, and _Yep_ , Natasha thought, _my brain has officially lost all function_. 

 

She could feel Clint snickering at her side as she stared helplessly, could vaguely register Daisy’s raised brow and knowing smirk, but Holy shit, Wanda was looking back at her with vulnerability sparkling in those beautiful blue-hazel eyes and she just looked so _good_ and _perfect_ and—

 

“You look nice, Natasha,” Wanda said softly, dragging her from her thoughts as the Sokovian girl’s eyes darted from Natasha to an out-of-it Clint swaying slightly on his feet beside her. 

 

_Holy—did she just say I look nice?_

 

Natasha scrambled to shut her gaping mouth, trying to think of a response— _any_ response would do at this point, because really, this was getting embarrassing. “U-Uh,” she stuttered, a flush spreading across her cheeks that she’d have liked to blame literally anything else for, but it was all _Wanda_ and those gorgeous blue eyes and the way she looked in that incredible outfit (which was downright sacrilegious, in case anyone was wondering). 

 

“Wanda! You look… You look incredible,” she managed eventually, shooting Daisy a glare when the Asian girl snorted (—but her compliment had Wanda ducking her head and blushing slightly, so she decided it was worth it).

 

“How many shots did you take, buddy?” Daisy asked then, turning her attention to Clint ( _Thank God_ ), her brown eyes still dancing with amusement. 

 

Clint groaned, leaning his head of gelled dirty-blonde-hair onto Natasha’s shoulder. “Four,” he mumbled into her neck even as Natasha rolled her eyes.

 

“Lightweight,” she quipped affectionately, to which Clint just let out another grunt and buried himself even further into Natasha’s shoulder.

 

Daisy’s grin widened as she crossed her tanned arms against her rainbow-tee-clad chest. “Adorable,” she mused, before turning her gaze back to Natasha. “You brought some of the good stuff for me, too, right?”

 

Natasha smirked. “Of course. Shall we see if we can get it inside first?”

 

“Oh, please,” Daisy said, letting out a good-natured scoff. “You and I both know we could get a bomb through their security without breaking a sweat.”

 

At that, Clint started and detached himself quickly from Natasha’s shoulder, his blue eyes wide and alert as he whirled around to look at their surroundings with visceral alarm. “Did someone say _bomb?_ ” 

 

Daisy laughed even as Clint’s brows furrowed with genuine concern. “Oh, yeah. This is gonna be fun.”

 

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Getting in was easy. The security guard barely spared the contents of Natasha’s cutesy black travel backpack a single glance before impatiently waving them in, even as Natasha could hear the hard liquor sloshing around in the large silver flask she’d packed at the very bottom.

 

In no time at all, they had each paid the $25 entrance fee, received the purple bracelets to show for it, and were walking towards an unoccupied square of lush green grass to stop and regroup so Daisy could catch up with Clint and Natasha in terms of alcohol consumption. 

 

Checking over both shoulders to ensure there were no Pride enforcers of any kind around to yell at them (though it took longer than it normally would have, her reflexes exquisitely dulled; the alcohol was definitely starting to hit), Natasha brought out the flask from the bag in her lap along with a shot glass for Daisy. 

 

Then Natasha paused for a brief moment, thinking. “Do you two drink?” she asked, looking up to address Wanda and Pietro, trying _very_ hard to not let her gaze linger on the former—they were all sitting in a circle again beneath a lush tree like they had just days ago, Natasha belatedly realized, though this time, Daisy and Vis and Clint had joined. She didn’t know how she felt about that. 

 

“My metabolism is too fast,” Pietro said with a shrug. “So, no.”

 

Clint squinted at the boy beside him for a long moment. “Luckyyyy."

 

“Wanda?” she questioned, cursing herself at how _desperate_ she sounded. 

 

“I’ll have some,” the girl answered, voice thick with that debilitating Sokovian accent as she tilted her head at Natasha.

 

_God, she’s going to be the death of me_ , Natasha thought.

 

“O-Okay,” she said, her tone strangled. She made herself break eye contact to dig around for another shot glass in her bag, shivering at the feel of the other girl’s gaze burning into her as she did.

 

Daisy, meanwhile, had poured herself a healthy shot from Natasha’s silver flask; screwing the lid back on, she raised it in a ‘Cheers’ motion to the rest of them, babbling a quick “Gesundheit!” before throwing it back with a sour expression.

 

“You say that every time,” Clint remarked sluggishly. “What does ‘gay-zoon-right’ mean?”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes; Vision let out a long sigh.

 

“It’s ‘gesundheit,’” corrected Pietro amusedly, his hazel eyes glinting in the afternoon sunlight. 

 

“Literally it means ‘health,’” Vision offered, "but people say it as a ‘Bless you!’ after someone sneezes.”

 

Clint pushed his bottom lip out to form an unmistakeable pout, his brows furrowed in utter confusion. “Then what,” he slurred, “why did Daisy say it just now?”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Natasha muttered, fishing out a blue shot glass with ‘VERMONT’ across the side in bold grey lettering and handing it to Wanda with slightly trembling hands (—she shivered when Wanda’s warm fingers brushed against hers, too buzzed to bother fighting how it made her feel, because _Christ_ ).

 

Daisy poured shots into her and Wanda’s glasses, promptly downing hers with another wince as Wanda watched with interest, the glass still firmly in her grip.

 

“Vis?” Natasha asked the blonde boy halfheartedly as Daisy passed the flask back to her—she knew he never drank, but she figured she might as well offer.

 

As expected, the boy just shook his head, one hand fiddling with the purple band on his wrist. He looked good today, Natasha thought, in a dark purple polo tee (without a collar this time!) and simple black cargo shorts paired with white-and-grey checkered vans—his subtle nod to the colors of the asexual flag, she knew, because Vision was nothing if not immaculately coordinated. His blonde buzzcut glowed in the sunlight as his blue eyes focused on something off into the distance—Vision always seemed to be thinking about something far beyond the rest of them, and Natasha was always more than happy to allow him that comfort uninterrupted. 

 

She turned back just in time to witness Wanda throwing her head back and downing the shot, leaving the tendons of her perfect neck on display as she did and Wow, Natasha would have really liked to blame the alcohol because her head was spinning and she could feel the vodka warming beneath her ribcage but she knew damn well it had nothing to do with that, not when Wanda was sitting there and all that skin was on display and Natasha couldn’t help wanting desperately to kiss her again—

 

“Natasha,” Daisy said firmly, eyes expectant as she held out her again-empty shot glass, and God, Natasha really needed to stop zoning out—it was becoming a problem already, and they’d only just arrived. 

 

Natasha nodded numbly in response, dutifully pouring her another shot from the flask, and, upon receiving a nod from Wanda, did the same for the other girl. 

 

“How many are you guys gonna take?” Clint whined, head lolled to one side as he leaned back on his elbows in the lush green grass. “I wanna walk arouuuuunnddd.”

 

Daisy rolled her eyes as she tossed the shot back, gasping dramatically after she’d swallowed—Wanda did the same beside her, albeit with a little less theatricality. 

 

“One more, buddy,” Daisy answered the boy, voice gravelly, then turned back to Natasha. “When did Maria say she would come meet us?” 

 

Natasha frowned to herself, trying to think. “I think 6?” she said eventually, her mouth feeling blessedly numb.

 

Clint let out another loud groan, his very un-subtle nudge for them to hurry; Daisy just huffed. 

 

“Okay,” the Asian girl said, thrusting her glass towards Natasha. “Hit me one more time.” 

 

“Oh my God, I love that song!” Clint immediately sat up, his eyes alight with almost comical delight as Natasha dutifully poured Daisy another shot.

 

Pietro thrust a hand into the air, uncaring as his white V-neck shifted up to expose a thin sliver of his toned (and noticeably scar-ridden) midriff. “Me too!” 

 

Natasha sighed, eyeing Wanda to see if she would also like another shot, which she gracefully declined with a slight shake of her head. “Clint, if you start singing, so help me God—“

 

“ _My loneliness, is killing me—_ "

 

“ _And I-I_ ,” Pietro jumped in as Natasha groaned. 

 

Clint grinned. “ _I must confess, I still belie-eve—_ "

 

“ _Still be-lieve!_ ” the twin’s voice cracked on the final high note, causing Daisy (having thankfully gulped down her final shot) to burst out laughing, and a wide grin to spread on Wanda’s face.

 

Natasha rubbed at her temples. “Useless gay disasters,” she mumbled, though she couldn’t quite stop the corner of her lips from quirking up at Clint and Pietro’s beaming faces—they were clearly quite proud of their impromptu and almost impressively off-key performance.

 

“What is that song?” inquired Vision then, his gaze curious as he returned his attention back to the circle.

 

“Oh Vision,” Daisy teased with mock-empathy, her cheeks still pinkish from laughing as she clapped him on the back. “Your naïvety is refreshing as always.” 

 

Clint nodded listlessly, a lazy grin on his features. “Yeah,” he said dreamily, “we love you, Vis.”

 

Vision looked surprised and still more than a little bit lost, but gave the boy a solemn nod in response. “And I you, Clint.”

 

Daisy leaned forward then, looking like she was fighting rather hard to keep a straight face. “And if you ever decide you’re not down with the whole ‘asexuality' thing anymore,” she paused, her lips twitching, voice turning sultry, “you are _totally_ invited to the group orgy.”

 

There was a brief moment of silence before Pietro’s shoulders began to shake with silent laughter as Clint quickly clapped a hand over his own mouth to keep himself from reacting verbally, Wanda biting her lip hard to suppress a smile—Vision, in the meantime, just looked shocked and vaguely terrified, his lips forming a perfect ‘o,’ both impeccably-shaped brows in definite danger of reaching his hairline. 

 

“Um, Ms. Johnson,” he said, and Natasha fought the urge to laugh as he reverted back to titles and last names—Vision was obviously uncomfortable, and boy, it was showing. “I don’t think that that’s very—“

 

Daisy opened her mouth to interrupt, but Natasha got there first. “We’ll talk about that later,” she said quickly, rolling her eyes when Daisy glared at her in response. “Wanna go look at this year's merch?”

 

“Yes!” Clint exclaimed, jumping to his feet in a split second and nearly face-planting as he did, the alcohol clearly throwing off his balance (—though, Natasha will admit, she was vaguely disappointed that he managed to right himself before crumpling to the floor, because that would’ve been hysterical to see). Then the boy turned dramatically, his hands coming up to form makeshift binoculars as he peered into the distance—a moment later, evidently having seen something of interest, he dropped his hands back to his sides, whirling back around to face the still-sitting group on the grass. “To the merch!” he announced loudly.

 

Natasha felt a wry grin spreading across her lips as she zipped the flask and shot glasses back into her backpack, slinging it across her shoulders as she stumbled to her feet—and then suddenly the world was tilting and she was lurching and there were too many trees around and she was sure she was going to fall because her legs were refusing to move and then—

 

She stopped falling. 

 

_Wanda._

 

The intoxicating cinnamon-y scent of the taller girl flooded her senses, making her head feel even lighter than before as warm hands wrapped around her, one looped about her waist and the other resting warmly on the skin of her forearm, and God, she’d blame it on the alcohol later but she didn’t bother trying to fight it was she swayed further into Wanda’s warmth, delighting in the girl's warm puffs of breath as they ghosted over her cheekbone. 

 

“You alright?” Wanda whispered gently to her, lips brushing against Natasha’s ear as goosebumps rose on her pale skin. 

 

_Holy shit_.

 

Natasha couldn’t speak—knew that if she tried she’d probably embarrass herself horribly, so she just nodded as convincingly as she could, her eyes flicking upwards to meet Wanda’s sea-blue irises before quickly darting back down because _Christ, those eyes_. 

 

Concern still sparkled in Wanda’s blue-eyed gaze, but she nodded anyways, stroking Natasha’s hipbone in a soothing circle before retracting both her arms—Natasha had to bite back a whimper at the abrupt loss of Wanda’s body all around her, because _Fuck_. 

 

_Idiot_ , she scolded herself as a seemingly unaffected Wanda turned to follow an ecstatic Clint, who was ambling away and towards the colorful array of tents not 100 feet away. _You can’t do this, remember? It’s too dangerous_.

 

Natasha watched with hurt lancing deep in her chest as Wanda ran off in that perfect outfit, every piece of fabric clinging devastatingly to her thin form— _Ugh_ , she had to snap out of this, like, _yesterday_. She pinched the bruised skin of her wrist hidden beneath the bracelets _hard_ , her eyes burning as the pain seemed to hit her like a sucker-punch to the gut—but it did the job, because the tingling warmth in her lower belly was steadily beginning to abate even as she stood there trying desperately to control her emotions, watching the shape of Wanda walking further into the distance… away from _her_. 

 

"It’s too dangerous," she repeated to herself. “Too dangerous.”

 

Turning to slide her travel bag off her shoulders, she grabbed the flask, hands shaking erratically as she fought to messily unscrew the cap. Bringing it to her lips, she took a long gulp, refusing to wince as it burned going down her throat, barely registering as some of the rancid liquid missed her mouth entirely and dribbled down her chin. _You deserve this_ , a voice in her head that sounded painfully similar to Alexei's whispered, her eyes still burning with unshed tears. _You deserve the pain_. She took another swig.

 

She sighed heavily even as the heat from the liquor spread through her chest in a way she usually found comforting (but right now just made her feel empty), before screwing the lid back on and dropped the glinting silver flask in her bag, managing to grasp the zipper and pull the pouch shut; then she took a deep breath, sliding the pack on her shoulders and steeling herself for what was to come.

 

_Fuck_. 

 

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	13. do you wanna build a snowman? (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drunker-than-normal Natasha and a very hammered Clint should not be left alone without supervision. 
> 
> Also, Natasha has issues. 
> 
> (She's trying, ok?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so a warning for this chapter (I'm gonna update the tags too): this contains an explicit depiction of BDSM, though probably (definitely) not in the way you're thinking... like, at all. 
> 
> But please, know your triggers, and do not read if you even think it might upset you in the slightest!!

She was going to kill Clint. Slowly. And maybe write Drunk Natasha a letter scolding her intoxicated hot-mess-self for being such a goddamn idiot… when she was sober again, of course—because as bad ideas go, this one was especially poor. 

 

It was nearing 6pm (5:49 to be exact); Daisy, Vis and the twins had run off to find Maria (who had said she’d be at the gates soon), leaving a _very_ drunk Clint and a slightly-drunker-than-originally-planned Natasha to their own devices…. which, bad. _Very_ bad. 

 

To their credit, they were just going to dance drunkenly on the crowded stage for the next 20 minutes while the rest of the group retrieved Maria—but on a trip to the bathrooms, Clint had stumbled across a section of the park labelled “The Erotic Experience,” and, well… from there, things quickly went downhill. 

 

You had to be 18+ to enter, and there were bouncers at the entrance—luckily (or unluckily) for them, Natasha and Clint had been gifted fakes by one very enthusiastic Daisy during their junior year, making the both of them 19-year-old residents of New York, as far as various night club and gas station owners in Vermont were concerned—and so they found themselves waved in with little trouble. 

 

It was a small area, Natasha observed as she and Clint stumbled through the grass—and the main attraction was, of all things, a BDSM tent. And not just a BDSM tent in terms of butt plugs for sale, or advertisements for small-time pornos… nope. 

 

To begin with, there were two wooden X’s about five feet apart, a woman in a denim skirt and loose white tank who could’t have been more than 20 chained to one—a middle aged man clad only in Aviator sunglasses, a leather harness, and cargo shorts hitting her fabric-clad rear with a flogger as she flinched with every stroke. 

 

(The other wooden X was empty… at least, for now.) 

 

Off to the side, there was another wooden X keeping a flamboyantly-dressed man who looked to be about 25 chained to the posts while another middle-aged bearded man in a harness poked and prodded at him with an electro-stim wand, eliciting the occasional yelp from his restrained subject. Next to that, there hung a metal-and-wooden cage, where a woman in her 30’s was handcuffed and trapped inside, with a topless man in khakis stood beside her nonchalantly twirling a flogger even as the two conversed casually through the iron bars. 

 

Natasha turned to Clint, his blue eyes almost comically wide and jaw agape; she knew very well that a similar look of utter shock was likely reflected on her own features. 

 

“What…” Clint trailed off. 

 

“The fuck,” Natasha finished for him as the pair slowly turned their attention back to the jarring sight before them. 

 

After a moment, Natasha was hit with the realization that the woman in the cage and the two young people chained to the X’s were actually volunteers from the crowd—there was a shirtless man (he looked to be in his 40s or so) with a hairy potbelly walking around with a clipboard and stopping for the occasional brave soul from the crowd to sign a waiver, then guiding them to get in line for a BDSM-contraption of their choice. 

 

She was quick to urgently whisper her findings to Clint, who didn’t respond or give any indication that he’d heard her, his attention still fixed blankly on the chained woman being flogged before the crowd—though, she supposed she couldn’t have expected that Clint would stay speechless for long, especially not considering how drunk the boy was; sooner than Natasha could blink he was turning to eye her up and down with a wicked grin on his tanned features. 

 

_Oh God_ , Natasha thought.

 

“What’re the odds you get up there and volunteer?” His eyebrows wiggled goofily. 

 

Natasha rolled her eyes but smiled wryly, her head feeling pleasantly light and warm. “Not in a million years.”

 

“Why not?” 

 

“Do I really need to answer that?”

 

Clint pouted. “Please?”

 

“Hard pass.”

 

“When will you ever get the chance to do something like this again?”

 

“Well, my raging PTSD was hoping ‘never,’” she replied sardonically. 

 

“My ass is as traumatized as yours.”

 

“And?”

 

"It’s completely safe!” 

 

Natasha sighed. “I’m aware."

 

“I’ll do it if you do it.”

 

Natasha raised a single brow, feeling emboldened by the alcohol even as her brain screamed _This is a terrible idea!_ “I’m listening.” 

 

“And I will also...” Clint trailed off, face screwed up in concentration. “ _Oh!_ I'll make you pancakes!” 

 

“Chocolate chip?” 

 

Clint grinned. “With strawberries and bananas on the side.”

 

Natasha heaved another sigh. “Ugh. Fine,” she gave another eyeroll as Clint whooped loudly beside her. “Let’s just go sign up before I change my mind.”

 

And that, Natasha thought bitterly, was why she was going to kill Clint… and possibly herself as well—because now both wrists were firmly chained to the tops of the wooden X (Clint was still in line behind her), the harness-clad man who’d dubbed himself “Jerry” had gone over her safe words (red for ‘Stop,' yellow for 'Slow down,' green for 'I’m good’) though they really weren’t making her feel all that much better about the whole situation as she stood anxiously on the blocky wooden platform waiting for the first strike across her bottom.

 

She’ll admit that it helped a little to have the crowd chattering mindlessly around her, along with Jerry making easy conversation and stupid jokes to try and make her smile; it made the situation seem more safe… less like an actual punishment, as flogging was so often used to effect.

 

_But_ , her brain whispered, _you’d be deserving of a punishment right now. For being stupid enough to let Alexei back in, for hurting Wanda, for_ —

 

_Crack!_ the leather came down _hard_ against her legging-clad behind, abruptly pulling her from her thoughts, the pain barely there but still much worse than she’d been expecting as she bit her lip to stop a surprised yelp from escaping.

 

She didn’t have time to gather herself before— _crack!_ —another stroke, harder this time, came against her left cheek even as Natasha stubbornly forced herself to lean into it. _Crack!_ Another. _Crack!_ She refused to let herself flinch as both cheeks burned from the force of it. _Crack! Crack! Crack!_

 

_Shit_ , that hurt.

 

A brief pause as she felt the man—Jerry, she reminded herself—approaching her from behind, rubbing at her irritated clothed bottom with rough hands in what was likely meant to be a soothing motion, but only caused waves of unmistakeable nausea to begin curling in her stomach; she forced herself to remain calm, repeating Clint’s earlier words in her mind. _“It’s completely safe”… “completely”… “safe”…_

 

“Check in,” the man said behind her, his tone frustratingly neutral even as his two large hands gentle kneaded her cheeks. 

 

“Green.”

 

“Remember to say ‘red’ when you’ve had enough.”

 

She just nodded, knowing she wouldn’t use it— _“Dirty girls don’t deserve 'safe words,’”_ Alexei had snarled at her even as she begged for him to stop, to please let her rest, to take pity on her beaten and relentlessly used body. 

 

He didn’t. 

 

When Alexei had told her father the next day that she’d asked him for a safe word, he’d been so angry: raining punches and kicks that knocked the wind out of her as she sobbed, until her ribs were surely cracked and she didn’t have energy to do anything but lay there blankly and take it; she was sure he was going to kill her.

 

She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when she woke up a day and a half later.

 

_Crack!_ Her ass felt like it was on fire—her hips, too. She’d have bruises in the morning, if they weren’t already forming now; that much was guaranteed. _Crack!_ Fuck, that one hurt. 

 

_You deserve this_ , she reminded herself as— _crack! crack!_ —two hits came in quick succession, then a second later— _crack!_ —another hard smack took her by surprise, and she was sure she felt the skin of her right cheek split beneath her tights… but, she reasoned, it could’ve just been her imagination. 

 

She barely registered Jerry approaching her once more and saying gruffly, “Check in.”

 

“Green.” She’s not sure how she managed that response, pain radiating from her heated cheeks, but—

 

_Crack! Crack!_

 

A small gasp of pain escaped her lips before she could stop it, and she was sure this time that he’d broken skin—she could feel the familiar sensation of blood beginning to trickle down her abused skin. 

 

_Thank God I wore leggings today_ , she thought hazily. 

 

_Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!_

 

Tears began to burn in her eyes. 

 

_Crack! Crack!_

 

A moment of blessed rest, then—

 

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

 

She gritted her teeth.

 

_Crack! Crack!_

 

“Red!” Clint’s hysterical tone came from somewhere off to her right, and Natasha found herself sighing with relief even as she cursed him for interrupting—she deserved more, she knew. She deserved worse. 

 

Jerry was silent for a moment in response, clearly taken aback by Clint’s abrupt exclamation. “Uh, who are you?” 

 

“I’m her friend,” he said, and Natasha could hear the indignant attitude underlying his normally easy tone. “She’s too stubborn to safe word. So I’m doing it for her.”

 

“Uh, okay, sure,” Jerry said breezily behind her, recovering fairly quickly as he moved to discard the flogger, then approached Natasha to begin unchaining her wrists.

 

She felt a blush staining her features as one wrist was finally freed, knowing there were probably tiny beads of blood blooming from where the cuffs had pressed her bracelets further into the healing skin. She hoped it was still well-hidden enough that Jerry wouldn’t notice.

 

If he did, he didn’t say anything as he undid the straps around her other wrist with practiced hands, before helping her down from the wooden block with a firm but cautious arm.

 

“You know,” he said when they were standing just across from each other in the grass before the wooden X. (She tried her best not to stare at his bare and hairy chest covered only with a thin leather harness.) “It doesn’t make you weak to use your safe word.”

 

Natasha managed the best smirk she could even as her legs trembled beneath her. “I do have the habit of being a bit too obstinate at times,” she replied.

 

Jerry just chuckled to himself, one hand coming up to rub at the salt-and-pepper beard on his jaw. “You’re a tough one,” he said, and she could hear something like sincerity underlying his words, “but you don’t have to be. Remember that, Natasha.”

 

She forced the grin on her face to widen. It was almost painful. “I will. Thank you, Jerry.”

 

Jerry beamed, his eyes still hidden behind blue-tinted Aviators. “My pleasure.”

 

Turning to a visibly concerned Clint, she strained to walk evenly over to her friend without collapsing even as every muscle in her lower body screamed at her for exhibiting such boldly feigned indifference. 

 

(She wasn’t going to be able to sit down properly for a good week after this.)

 

Her head still buzzed pleasantly with the lingering effects of the alcohol even as the persistent ache across her ass cheeks and hips threatened to overtake her; then she was inches away from an almost comically torn Clint, who looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to be concerned or angry as his wide blue eyes frantically searched hers—though for what, she couldn’t be sure.

 

Eventually he let out a slow breath, running a shaking hand through the dirty blonde mess of hair on his scalp. 

 

“What the _hell_ , Natasha?” he hissed. 

 

Natasha just shrugged, feeling more than a little bit out of it. “You owe me pancakes.” Her voice sounded far away, tinny to her ears.

 

Clint bit his lip nervously. “We’re leaving.” 

 

Natasha dazedly furrowed a brow. “What about your turn?” 

 

“ _Dammit_ , Natasha,” he said with clear exasperation, sighing to himself when his slight outburst caused her to flinch involuntarily. “I’m sorry,” he amended, brows stitched together in an expression of distinct concern. “You’re safe with me… but what you just did,” he let out a long breath. “Look, let’s leave. Okay?” 

 

She didn’t have the energy to argue. “Okay."

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

Natasha slept on her stomach that night, in only a loose white V-neck and black panties—even wearing the softest cotton shorts she owned hurt her stinging cheeks something awful.

 

It made the nightmares worse, unfortunately—feeling the cool air on her bare upper thighs, the dull throb of pain in her ass… like she was right back in her father's basement.

 

She downed shots like water until she could barely trust herself to walk back to bed without falling—she’s not sure it did much to help. 

 

She didn’t realize she’d been crying until her lips were wet and she could taste the salty tears.

 

She hated crying.

 

To make things worse, Clint had been dialing her nonstop since she’d dropped him at his house. She’d shut her ringer off after the 6th call, but hesitated when she went to power it off completely—if Alexei messaged her and she didn’t respond, she’d have a hell of a lot more to deal with than a whiny Clint. 

 

Clint could wait. Alexei wouldn’t.

 

Meanwhile, her thoughts wandered as she laid in bed on her stomach, one wrist tightly cuffed, buttocks aching. She thought about Clint, about Alexei, about her father… but every single time, her thoughts seemed to circle back to _her_ … to _Wanda_. 

 

It felt something like a curse, thinking about Wanda’s eyes, her smile, her laugh, even when she knew damn well the Sokovian girl was better off without her, was better off far far away from Natasha so Alexei would never lay eyes on her—just because Natasha was broken beyond repair, didn’t mean Wanda had to be, too.

 

Wanda deserved better.

 

It took a long time for her to fall asleep.

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

Natasha woke to the incessant buzz of her cell coming from somewhere in her room—turning her head groggily to check the time, she groaned loudly at the bold 6:34am blinking back at her from the digital clock on her bedside table. 

 

If whoever was calling didn’t have a _very_ good reason for waking her a good thirty minutes before her alarm on a _school day_ , she was going to throttle them. Violently.

 

Blinking slowly through droopy eyelids, she fumbled around for the handcuff key, barely paying attention as her hands seemed to move of their own accord, successfully freeing her wrist with sluggish but practiced movements. 

 

She’d spent yesterday resting rather than attending the second day of Pride with the group, so thankfully her bruised butt didn’t hurt nearly as much as she carefully forced herself to get out of bed and search for her phone, eyes squinting against the luminous sunlight filtering through the window.

 

She rolled her eyes when she spotted the buzzing device sitting under her bed, its screen alight with the name ‘Daisy Johnson,’ along with a goofy selfie the girl had taken on Natasha’s phone a while back. 

 

Allowing herself to sprawl tiredly on her front against the hardwood flooring, she begrudgingly clicked the green circle and pulled the phone to her ear. 

 

“You better have a damn good reason for calling,” she hissed into the speaker, though she was still far too bleary-eyed and tired to make it sound all that threatening. 

 

“Girl, we have school anyways! I’m doing you a favor.” Daisy sounded far too chirpy for how obscenely early it was. 

 

“My alarm doesn’t go off for another 30 minutes,” Natasha responded through gritted teeth, rubbing tiredly at her forehead. “Why are you even up right now?” 

 

Daisy chuckled. “The sky’s awake so _I’m_ awake!” 

 

“Don’t you dare start. You know I hated that movie.”

 

“ _Do you wanna build a snowma_ —"

 

“Daisy.”

 

“Party pooper.”

 

Natasha sighed. “Just tell me why you called, please.” 

 

“Oh, right!” Daisy blathered excitedly. “I just wanted to check in, see if you were doing okay.” 

 

Natasha rubbed harder at her temples. “Let me get this straight—"

 

“First time for everything, I suppose.”

 

Natasha pointedly ignored her. “—You called me at six- _fucking_ -thirty to ask me how I’m _doing_?”

 

Daisy hummed happily. “Yep!”

 

“I’m gonna kill you.”

 

“Naw, you love me too much.” 

 

“I’m beginning to re-evaluate that.” 

 

“Rude.” 

 

“Bite me.” 

 

There was a brief moment of comfortable silence between the two. 

 

“So?” Daisy asked eventually. 

 

“So what?”

 

“How are you?” Natasha didn’t miss how Daisy’s voice turned a little more serious, the smile fading from her tone. 

 

The redhead sighed. “I’m fine.” 

 

“You sure?”

 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

 

She could almost see Daisy rolling her eyes in response. “You didn’t come to Pride yesterday.”

 

“So?”

 

“So, you said you would.” 

 

Natasha bit her lip. “I was, um,” she faked a half-hearted cough into the receiver, “sick.”

 

“Clint seemed pretty upset,” Daisy said pointedly, clearly not fooled in the slightest by Natasha’s pitiful theatrics.

 

“You know how he can be.” 

 

“Look, you don’t have to tell me; I know better than to push,” the other girl said with a sigh. “But just… at least think of calling me up if things get worse?” 

 

Natasha’s eyes began to burn. “Yeah,” she replied eventually, her voice scarcely a whisper. “Yeah, I will.” 

 

“Okay, and just… keep yourself safe.” 

 

Natasha was silent for a moment. 

 

“Hey, Daisy?” 

 

“Yeah, Tash?”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“I’m always here babe,” Daisy assured her. “I love you."

 

Natasha smiled to herself, shy and genuine. “I love you, too.” 

 

“See you at school?” 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually based on when I went to Pride a couple weekends back with my best friend-- we were also quite drunk, and the BDSM tent is absolutely an actual thing that happened. 
> 
> It was an interesting weekend.


	14. "that's gay" (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda's worried about Natasha... 
> 
> And Tony appears to make a brief (though not all that helpful) observation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Would love to know what you think:)

Wanda was worried about Natasha—granted, that had been something of an ongoing theme ever since the redheaded girl had begun ignoring her, but it’d only gotten worse since Pride weekend; something had happened with Natasha after the girls’ hangout had gone to shit, she was sure—though what it was, Wanda didn’t have the faintest clue. 

 

She sighed to herself, attempting to keep her distracted thoughts at bay as an enthusiastic-as-ever Ms. Simmons gabbed on about something on… cylindrical… coordinates? Conversions? Wanda couldn’t be sure. 

 

It was last block on Monday, and Natasha was sitting in her usual spot next to Wanda in PreCalculus, and God, it was distracting—and not for the reasons it typically was.

 

Well, of course, she still looked incredible—Wanda’s fairly certain Natasha couldn’t look anything but insanely beautiful if she tried, and today she was wearing a simple long-sleeved white V-neck and tight black leggings that hugged her form in the most amazing way—but no, today there was something up. Natasha looked… she looked… hurt. _Bad_. 

 

The redheaded girl was biting her lip _hard_ (again, distracting, but this time in the normal way) like she was in pain, tapping her sneaker-clad foot like she’d taken way too much Adderall, and every time she so much as blinked, a shiver of something like discomfort would reverberate through her entire body. 

 

It was driving Wanda crazy… and _not_ in the normal ‘Oh no I’m already halfway in love with this girl’ kind of way. 

 

She lasted about 45 minutes into Ms. Simmon’s lesson on cylindrical… something-or-others, when the sudden noise of a boy sitting two tables ahead dropping his binder on the floor caused Natasha’s entire body to recoil violently, then let out an aggravated hiss through gritted teeth as if even the brief motion was agonizing for her. 

 

_That’s it_ , Wanda thought.

 

She turned to Natasha. “You’re hurt.” It wasn’t a question.

 

Natasha clenched her jaw, refusing to look back at the brunette as she stubbornly fixed her gaze straight ahead. “I’m fine.”

 

“Natasha, please,” she said quietly, not bothering to keep the earnest note from her tone. 

 

Immediately Natasha looked conflicted, a single brow furrowing her perfectly smooth alabaster skin. “I just…” she trailed off, biting her lip. “It’s nothing you have to worry about, okay?” At that, she turned her electric green eyes to focus on Wanda’s, something like despair sparkling in her gaze. 

 

Wanda shifted in her seat to face Natasha fully now, Ms. Simmons’ lesson entirely forgotten as worry built steadily in her chest. “I want to help."

 

“I can take care of myself,” Natasha muttered before pointedly returning her gaze to Ms. Simmons at the front of the classroom. 

 

Wanda let out a small sigh. “That doesn’t mean you have to. That’s why you have friends.”

 

Natasha raised a brow, her eyes flickering back to Wanda. “Friends? Is that what we are?” 

 

Wanda ignored the spark of anger flaring in her chest at Natasha’s sarcastic tone—she knew a poorly constructed defense mechanism when she saw one. 

 

“I know it scares you,” she said calmly. “But I’d like to think we’ve become something like friends,” she finished, hating how the word ‘friends' sounded coming off her tongue, especially as she sat there knowing exactly how it felt to kiss the beautiful redhead, to feel her warm and pliant against Wanda’s body, because that wasn’t _’friends’_ —that was something very, _very_ different. 

 

At that, Natasha looked almost contrite, the faintest hint of a blush beginning to tint her pale skin. “I’m sorry." 

 

“Apology accepted,” Wanda replied without hesitation, feeling her heart flutter when the ghost of a smirk twitched at Natasha’s lips. “Can you agree to stop avoiding me from now on?” 

 

Fear flashed through Natasha’s eyes almost immediately—it was momentary, but it was there just the same, and it certainly didn’t escape Wanda’s notice. 

 

“I don’t—I don’t know,” the girl said, uncertainty laid bare across her pretty features. 

 

Wanda’s heart clenched. “Natasha—“

 

_Rrrriiiiiinnnngg!!!!_ The bell sounded, effectively cutting off Wanda’s train of thought. 

 

“Okay!” Ms. Simmons said brightly, clasping her hands together happily. “That’s all the time we have for today! Chapter 7.8 problems for tonight’s homework—see you all next time!” 

 

_Goddammit_ , Wanda thought, eyeing the clock on the wall—3:01. School was over. 

 

Wanda scrambled to gather her things, shoving them haphazardly in her book bag as Natasha wordlessly did the same beside her, vaguely registering Ms. Simmons still standing pleasantly at the front of the classroom in a green cardigan and dark navy-blue jeans as students filed out the door— _She looks like she came straight out of a Gap ad_ , Wanda thought hazily.

 

Then Natasha was standing abruptly with a wince, stalking off towards the doorway with the slightest limp in her gait—which only served to worsen Wanda’s concern as she scrambled to follow the girl, giving Ms. Simmons the most pleasant nod she could manage as she speed-walked to the door. 

 

When Wanda stumbled out into the hallways, her eyes landed on Pietro leaned across the opposite wall, his head snapping up to see Wanda when she appeared. She gave him a quick shake of her head when he moved to greet her, then concentrated briefly on dropping a message into his mind— _'Stay there. Be right back’_ —before turning promptly to follow a stricken Natasha ambling with a worsening limp towards the doors at the end of the hallway, not bothering to check behind her to see Pietro’s reaction. 

 

She jogged slightly to catch up with the girl, her mind barely registering that Tony Stark (of _course_ ) had approached the redhead and forcibly begun accompanying her down the hall—then, when Wanda was a mere five feet away, he turned to Natasha at his side with a stupidly large grin, as if he’d just told an especially funny joke, bumping his hip playfully against hers when she didn’t react. 

 

That did it—suddenly Natasha was letting out a yelp of pain that died into something of a pained whimper in her throat as she stumbled, Wanda lunging instinctively forward to catch her from falling… it seemed to happen in slow motion: Wanda’s arms wrapping around her waist, the hitch in Natasha’s breathing as her eyes immediately darted up to see who had caught her—and there they were again: Natasha halfway to the ground and practically trembling against Wanda’s taller figure as she wrapped her arms protectively around the girl and their gazes met in heart-stopping fashion. 

 

She didn’t notice Tony’s grin spread wider across his features as he stared at the pair, and she’s sure she might’ve felt the urge to smack him if she wasn’t so enraptured by the sight of an angelic Natasha safely wrapped in her arms even as tens of random students milled past them in the crowded hallway. 

 

“That’s gay,” the boy said teasingly then, eyebrows wiggling mischievously even as Wanda’s head snapped up to glare at him. 

 

“Fuck off,” she growled, barely recognizing her own voice as Natasha’s small frame shook against hers. 

 

Tony just nodded ( _He’s being uncharacteristically agreeable_ , Wanda thought), his chocolate brown eyes twinkling. “Yes ma’am,” he responded easily, doing a mock salute before turning to scamper through the doors.

 

_Weird_. 

 

Wanda pushed that thought away, rolling her eyes at the boy's retreating figure before quickly returning her attention to a wide-eyed Natasha still cradled comfortably in her arms. “Now,” she sighed, delighting in the way she could feel Natasha’s warm breath against her lips. “Will you _please_ talk to me about what’s going on?” 

 

Natasha’s lips parted slightly, the expression of shock on her face almost funny as she allowed herself to relax fully into Wanda’s embrace. “I—I” she stammered, which Wanda found _adorable_ , “Can I kiss you?” 

 

Wanda’s eyebrows rose in surprise even as her heartbeat quickened to an almost worryingly unnatural pace—then before she could stop herself she was leaning in to press her lips against Natasha’s still-slightly-parted ones in lieu of response, the sound of students’ chatter fading blessedly to the background as Natasha let out a small sound of contentment into their entrancing kiss and Holy _shit_ , they were kissing. _Again_. And it felt… it felt… magical, somehow, beyond anything she'd had ever known.

 

Wanda took a second to be vaguely concerned about Pietro still waiting for her down the hall, and the students roaming through the slowly-emptying building around them, but God, it was hard to care about anything, especially when Natasha was pressed so tenderly against her, their lips meeting in the softest of ways and— 

 

The sudden sound of someone clearing their throat behind Wanda interrupted their kiss, Wanda whirling around to face an amused-looking Mr. Coulson in his typical spotless black suit with an equally surprised Natasha still frozen in her arms. 

 

_Oh, shit_ , the Sokovian girl thought, her cheeks flaming as Mr. Coulson’s thinning eyebrows rose. 

 

“Um, sorry to interrupt,” the man said awkwardly, though his brown eyes glinted with something like amusement as he fiddled with the thick black glasses on his nose. “But Daisy and I were wondering if the two of you” he gestured awkwardly at the pair, causing Wanda’s blush to deepen even further, "and young Mr. Maximoff would like to join us for dinner tomorrow?” 

 

“Uh,” she said dumbly, completely at a loss for words. 

 

Luckily, Natasha spoke quickly to break the awkward silence beginning to settle between the three of them. “That’d be great!” she said in a strangled tone, moving to steady herself against a stock-still Wanda into a standing position as she nodded at Mr. Coulson.

 

It took Wanda a solid moment to realize one of her arms was still wrapped around Natasha’s back, hand resting absentmindedly on Natasha’s legging-clad hipbone, which, Shit—but when she moved to withdraw her lingering (traitorous) limb, Natasha placed her hand subtly over Wanda’s on her hip to keep it in place even as the redhead kept steadfast eye contact with a delighted Mr. Coulson. 

 

Warmth bloomed in Wanda’s chest as she allowed her arm to relax around Natasha’s body, a sort of dizziness beginning to overtake her—then Natasha tapped her hand with a gentle finger, prompting Wanda to belatedly realize that Mr. Coulson was now looking expectantly at her, clearly waiting for a response. 

 

“Um,” she managed, clearing her throat inelegantly. “Yes, um—Yes, I think that could work.” Then she had another thought, her head tilting in slight confusion. “Are you and Daisy related?”

 

Mr. Coulson chuckled even as Wanda bit her lip nervously, fearing she’d missed something obvious. “Foster daughter,” he explained, looking completely at ease even as Wanda felt herself tense—she supposed she had the snake people to thank for giving her such debilitating trust issues with even the kindest of people. 

 

“Oh.”

 

Mr. Coulson nodded, a large smile on his face. “We’re planning to adopt her soon,” he revealed, eyes distant. “Though,” he said, turning his gaze back to the two of them, “don’t tell her that. We want it to be a surprise.”

 

Wanda felt her heart clench at how _genuine_ this man seemed to be—how _pure_ his love was for Daisy, a child who wasn’t even his biological daughter. She knew it was selfish, but God, she couldn’t help the part of her that yearned for something like that, for a parent who _cared_ above all else… or at least, seemed to. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about Mr. Coulson’s kind personality. 

 

She felt Natasha nod at her side. “She’s going to love that,” the redhead said softly, though she sounded distracted, too—sad, almost. Wanda wondered briefly if their thoughts had gone to the same place.

 

“Yeah, let’s hope so,” he replied in that gentle tone of his. “Well, I gotta get home—Melinda’s cooking tonight, and I need to get back before she burns the whole house down,” he adjusted the leather satchel on his shoulder with a wry grin. “See you guys tomorrow?” 

 

“Of course,” Natasha assured him.

 

Wanda felt slightly unable to speak at the moment, so she just nodded—relief washed over her when Mr. Coulson just beamed, looking happy enough with her response.

 

“Catch you guys later,” he gave them a wink with kind eyes before turning to walk down the hall and around the corner, disappearing from view in a matter of seconds. 

 

The two girls were silent for a long moment. 

 

“Did that really just happen?” Wanda breathed out, hyperaware of her arm still lazily strewn around Natasha standing beside her. “We’re going to _dinner_ with Daisy and _Mr. Coulson?_ ” 

 

Natasha just shrugged, unmoving in Wanda’s embrace, which— _God, I could get used to this_ , she thought. “It’ll be fun.” 

 

Wanda hummed, allowing them to lapse into silence again. 

 

“Hey,” she turned to Natasha, eventually breaking the silence. “Is it okay if we have that talk now?” 

 

The redhead immediately looked nervous, biting her bottom lip as she gazed tentatively up at Wanda. 

 

“Are you,” Natasha began, stopping herself when her voice cracked on the second syllable. “Are you gonna be mad at me?” she asked, her voice sounding so _small_ —it made Wanda want to hug her even tighter and take her somewhere safe where no one would ever harm her again. 

 

_God_ , she was already in so deep for this girl.

 

“Of course I won’t be mad,” she responded firmly, looking deeply into Natasha’s emerald-green eyes to let her know she meant it. “I just want you to be safe.” 

 

Natasha’s brows stitched together, searching Wanda’s gaze for something—probably the hint of a lie, or anything that betrayed the sincerity in Wanda’s tone—but found nothing. The green-eyed girl let out a slow breath, her features relaxing. “Okay,” she mumbled, nodding her head slightly. “Just… not here. Come home with me?” 

 

Wanda tried to ignore the way her chest tingled at those words, knowing very well Natasha didn’t mean it like _that_. 

 

“Of course.”

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧


	15. "is this okay?" (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda and Natasha finally talk... sort of. 
> 
> Or: Natasha still has issues, and Wanda just wants to help. It's difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know your thoughts! :)

“Promise you won’t be mad?” Natasha asked with heartbreakingly uncertain eyes as she traipsed into her bedroom, Wanda trailing a few feet behind. 

 

(Wanda had offered to just talk out in the living room, especially in light of what had happened the last time she’d been here and suggested they go to bed—but Natasha had insisted.

 

She was still tentative, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to argue—that was probably just about the least productive thing she could do for Natasha right now.)

 

Natasha had a nice room, Wanda thought as she looked around: hardwood flooring instead of carpet, standard cream-painted walls covered sparingly with ticket stubs and doodle-filled notebook sheets and handwritten birthday cards (almost all from Clint and Daisy, Wanda observed with a small grin), a queen-sized bed in the corner with white sheets and pillows on a sturdy metal frame, and what looked to be a small adjoining bathroom just to the left of the doorway.

 

Wanda sighed, coming to stand across from the anxious girl and forcing herself to abandon her scanning of the bedroom—Natasha looked unusually nervous as she stood there, and Wanda could feel the girl’s wary eyes upon her as if she were a ticking bomb that might explode at any second. 

 

It made Wanda want to scream her promises that Natasha was safe with her so she understood she didn’t need to be afraid; it made her want to take the redheaded girl by the shoulders and just look her in the eyes until she understood that she would never have anything to fear from Wanda, ever, even as the brunette knew how egregiously unproductive that would be. 

 

Instead, she settled for the most placid response she could manage:

 

“I promise, Natasha.” 

 

The girl bit her lip, (and Wanda tried valiantly to ignore what seeing that did to her, but really—could you blame her?) before the furrows in her brow were fading, her expression clearing like she’d just decided something. 

 

“Okay,” she said, eyeing Wanda with a precious sort of vulnerability, one that Wanda knew right away she’d be a fool to take for granted.

 

Then, without saying anything further, Natasha was promptly turning to face her bed as Wanda stood idly behind her. 

 

_Wait, what?_ Wanda thought.

 

The Sokovian girl felt remarkably dissociated from reality as she blankly watched Natasha slide shaking hands into the waistband at either side of her black leggings and, in one fluid motion, push the thin fabric down to her ankles. 

 

_Uhhh—_

 

Then, sliding her Converse-clad feet about a shoulder’s width apart (causing her ankles to strain against the now-taut fabric of the leggings pooled at her ankles), the redhead wordlessly bent herself forward to rest both elbows on the slightly rumpled sheets of her bed, both knees locking to form a perfect upside-down V of bare flesh—as if she were _displaying_ herself to Wanda. 

 

_Oh my God_ —Wanda was about 99.9% certain her brain lost all function right then. 

 

She was sure she was going to faint because suddenly Natasha was _there_ , bent over in that insanely revealing position, entirely bare save for an absolutely sinful lacy black thong. Wanda vaguely realized she kept opening her mouth to say something, though absolutely no sound was coming out—but then her dumb lesbian brain finally realized what the girl had been trying to show her, what could’ve possibly warranted the need for this overtly compromising position in order to do so, because _Shit_. 

 

Bruises. So many bruises. 

 

Natasha’s perfectly shaped butt was a mess of mottled purple and blue that stretched sickeningly around both hips, practically a nauseating contrast to the alabaster skin and pale scarring of her thighs in the soft yellow glow of afternoon sunlight. Even worse, there were a few places that the skin had actually broken on either cheek, thin irritated scabs marring the already mercilessly bruised skin, and God, her legs were _shaking_ as she forced herself to bend and completely bare the damage to Wanda and—

 

“Natasha,” she finally spoke, voice rough and trembling. “What happened?” 

 

The girl’s head was buried into the mattress between either elbow, a distant sniffle escaping her that made Wanda’s heart break. 

 

“Made a mistake,” she eventually mumbled, words muffled by the bedsheets. 

 

Wanda’s brows furrowed as anger flared in her stomach—she wanted to interrogate Natasha about what exactly had happened, force her to tell her exactly who was to blame, make her say what kind of ‘mistake’ she could have possibly made to warrant this… but as the girl let out another muted whimper into the mattress, Wanda forced those thoughts out of her mind, because Natasha most certainly didn’t owe her an explanation right now. 

 

Right now, she had to take care of Natasha.

 

“Okay,” Wanda forced her tone to remain calm, approaching the girl with slow and deliberate steps. “Have you cleaned these cuts?”

 

Natasha nodded slightly into the sheets. 

 

“Good. That’s really really good,” the brunette praised gently, noting how Natasha shivered slightly under her words and trying vehemently to ignore the pang of arousal that flooded through her at the redhead’s visceral reaction. 

 

Instead she cleared her throat, quick to scold herself when the abrupt sound caused Natasha to flinch almost imperceptibly. _No sudden noises or movements_ , she reminded herself. _She needs to feel safe_.

 

“Now, I want to get some lotion for you—your skin is really, really irritated. Can you tell me where to look?” 

 

“Bathroom,” the muffled answer came with little hesitation. “Under the sink.”

 

“Perfect,” she breathed, twisting to look at the modest bathroom attached to Natasha’s room. “I’ll be right back, okay? Just stay nice and still for me.” 

 

Natasha didn’t respond as Wanda padded to the bathroom, so she resolved to make her trip short: she wrenched open the cabinets beneath the sink with shaking hands, breathing out a heavy sigh of relief when she spotted a large bottle of lavender-scented lotion sitting amongst various containers of hair products and face washes. 

 

Snatching that along with a box of tissues sitting on the counter (in case Natasha’s cuts opened back up), she found herself quickly returning to the bedroom, immediately met with a sight she couldn’t have imagined in her wildest dreams. 

 

_Christ, this is really happening_ , she thought. 

 

The redhead hadn’t moved an inch, black Converse still roughly a shoulder’s width apart, leggings stretched tightly between pale ankles, the brutal markings on her pale ass boldly on display as she leaned her weight almost fully onto the mattress.

 

It took Wanda a moment to realize she was staring, which— _Stop being so useless and gay, you idiot!_ her brain screamed. _Natasha needs you right now!_

 

She jolted herself into action, approaching the girl slowly from behind with lotion and tissue box in hand. 

 

“Thank you for staying perfectly still just like I asked,” she said soothingly, a smile tugging at her lips when Natasha seemed to relax incrementally at her words. “Okay,” she paused, now standing only a foot or so away from the girl's exposed rear, “is it alright if I touch you to apply the lotion?”

 

Natasha nodded silently into the mattress. 

 

“Natasha, I’m not going to do anything until I get a verbal ‘okay.' I don’t want to hurt you.” 

 

She didn’t miss the slight shudder that ran through the redhead’s entire body in response. 

 

“Yes,” Natasha said softly, causing the pressure in Wanda’s chest to ease somewhat. 

 

Satisfied, she focused on the task at hand—removing her rings and bracelets and setting them off to the side, then squirting a generous glob of lotion into her palm and rubbing it gently onto both of her hands.

 

Natasha let out a soft sound (of contentment? of pain? Wanda couldn’t be sure) when Wanda hesitantly placed a lotion-lathered hand on either cheek, the skin positively radiating with heat as she forced herself to spread the cream over the sickening bruises and broken skin with as much tenderness as she could manage—here and there, Natasha would let out a whimper of pain, or another suppressed sniffle, making the Sokovian girl want to cry every single time at just how _broken_ she sounded. 

 

“You’re okay,” she reassured Natasha when the girl let out another whimper, louder this time as Wanda’s hands applied cool lotion over a particularly nasty scab, the redhead’s legs trembling underneath her. “You’re okay, Tash,” (She hadn’t meant for the nickname to slip out, but she supposed there was no taking it back now). “You’re with me, and you’re almost done—you’re doing so so well.” 

 

Natasha’s muted sobs seemed to lessen at that, which gave Wanda a fairly small feeling of satisfaction even as she attempted to focus herself solely on evenly spreading the lotion while minimizing the green-eyed girl’s pain to the best of her ability—anything besides the nature of Natasha’s entirely obscene position and the things it was doing to her body.

 

(Because really, Wanda had to wonder: was this karma? And if so, for _what_? 

 

Why did it have to be her standing before possibly the most beautiful girl in the entire world, who just so happened to be bent over her own bed with her perfectly shaped ass and thighs more or less on display, _completely_ bare save only for a flimsy scrap of lace between her smooth pale thighs that had absolutely no business calling itself ‘underwear’?

 

And what’s more, why did this also have to be happening while said girl was injured and crying and desperately in need of literally _anything_ other than some pervy moron like Wanda staring at her and thinking about very very inappropriate things even as she was supposed to be _helping?_ )

 

“It hurts,” Natasha’s weak voice sounded so devastated, and it ripped Wanda quickly from her thoughts even as it seemed to break something within her, because seeing Natasha hurt like this was making her hurt in a way she’d never known before; it was making her feel so useless to witness the girl crying out and flinching and shaking, all the while she couldn’t do a goddamned thing to make it any better.

 

_Fuck_.

 

“I know, Tash, I know,” she soothed, trying her best to keep her tone somewhat even as she spread the last of the lotion over bruised and shaking hips. “But see?” she removed both hands to emphasize her point, allowing them to drop to her sides. “We’re done now, and you did so well—I’m so impressed, Natasha, you’re so strong.” 

 

Wanda felt another twinge of unmistakeable arousal gather between her thighs when Natasha viscerally quivered in response, but she forced herself to push it down and concentrate. 

 

“Are you tired?” she asked. "Do you want to sleep now? I can tell Pietro to zoom over and grab me.”

 

Natasha was silent and unmoving for a moment, before she was shifting onto her hands and trying to stand, Wanda moving to help her—and then Natasha was looking desperately at her with teary wide green eyes, some of her mascara streaked across flushed cheeks, and somehow she still looked beautiful, Wanda realized, even in the wake of such meaningless devastation. 

 

“Can you stay?” she asked— _Christ_ , Wanda suddenly felt dizzy. 

 

_Speak, you idiot!_ her brain screamed. “Uh—I—Yes!” she said, wincing at her glaring over-eagerness. “I mean, um—yes, of course,” she amended, feeling a blush spread across her cheeks. 

 

Natasha just nodded dully, casting her gaze downwards as she worked to slide her Converse off, then lowered herself to sit on the bed with a slight wince, hands distractedly moving to rid herself of the black leggings bunched around her ankles—and suddenly, without warning, her head was snapping upwards, intense green-eyed gaze seeming to bore into the stormy blue irises of a gaping Wanda. 

 

“Are we going to have sex?” she asked then, her expression completely neutral as she tilted her head curiously and _Goddammit_ , Wanda abruptly wanted to smack herself, because _Please Lord, not this again_.

 

Instead she let out a sigh, fighting to hold Natasha’s inquisitive gaze. 

 

“No, Natasha, we’re not going to have sex.” 

 

Natasha’s brow furrowed. “But you… you did something nice for me.” 

 

The words felt like a sucker punch to Wanda’s gut. 

 

“That—No—You,” she paused to take a deep breath, trying to gather her thoughts. “That doesn’t—doesn’t mean you have to do… _that_.” She was quite ready, this time, to actually smack herself, because when had she suddenly lost the ability to articulate herself with any sort of coherency? Especially now, when it actually mattered?

 

“But we kissed. Twice,” Natasha stated, like that was somehow a valid counter-point. 

 

“Yes. We did.” 

 

“I’m confused,” the girl said, eyebrows stitched together. “So you _don’t_ like me like that?” 

 

“What?” Wanda yelped, more as a reflex than anything else, scolding herself for it when she saw Natasha’s shoulders tense involuntarily. “I’m sorry,” she amended quickly. “You just… you took me by surprise. I just—I thought we’d already established that I do, in fact, like you like _that_. Very much so.”

 

“But you don’t want to have sex with me?” 

 

Wanda wished the ground would swallow her whole. “Do _you_ want to have sex?” 

 

Both of Natasha’s brows rose, her lips parting slightly—she looked absolutely _floored_ by Wanda’s question, and really, truly, the young witch had never been more ready to go hunt down everyone that’d ever hurt this girl and hex blast their asses into next week (preferably until they stopped breathing), because this was absolutely _heartbreaking_ , and Natasha deserved so much better than this heaping pile of abuse she’d been given.

 

(It was only made worse at Wanda’s knowledge that Natasha's horribly warped perspective on sex and relationships was, in all likelihood, just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. 

 

 _Fuck_.)

 

“You—I,” Natasha stumbled over her words, shaking her head at herself as if something didn’t make sense—as if _Wanda_ wasn’t making sense. “So you _don’t_ want me to do things to you?” 

 

Wanda’s stomach churned; she could feel bile rising in her throat. 

 

“No,” she said as firmly as she could manage (rather than freaking out like she so desperately wanted to, because this was a conversation she could’ve most certainly gone without _ever_ having). “Natasha, I’m not lying when I say I like you. Like _that_. And I would absolutely be interested in taking things further between the two of us, but not like this. Do you understand?” At Natasha’s blank look, she withheld a sigh, absentmindedly rubbing the remnants of lotion on her hands further into her skin as she searched for the words. "I don’t—I don't want to have sex until it’s something we both actively want, okay?” 

 

If at all possible, the confusion on Natasha’s features seemed to grow more pronounced at those words, and Wanda felt the almost overpowering urge to punch something. 

 

“Then how am I supposed to pay you back?” the redhead asked curiously.

 

Wanda thought her brain might explode with pure frustration—not at Natasha, but rather towards the people that had dared to abuse her to such a degree that the need for her consent in a sexual situation was an absolutely baffling concept for the girl to grasp. 

 

God, this was fucked up. 

 

“You—Look, you don’t need to pay me back. Ever,” she spoke hastily, unable to stop a certain degree of hysteria from seeping into her tone even as she tried to accurately convey the genuine nature of her words. "I’m here because I want to be, because I care about you, because I want you to be safe.” 

 

“Are you sure?” 

 

Wanda sighed again. “Yes, Natasha. Quite.”

 

“Okay, then,” the redhead said, watching Wanda with careful eyes—not quite seeming to trust her yet, but it did look as if she might drop the whole ’sex’ thing, so Wanda supposed that that was a win. “We can just… sleep?” 

 

Then Natasha was shifting further across the bed and looking expectantly up at a motionless Wanda and—Oh. _Oh_. Natasha wanted them to sleep on the same bed. Together. At the same time. 

 

It took her a moment to realize the girl was still gazing at her from her spot on the queen-sized bed, obviously waiting for a response. 

 

“Um,” Wanda cleared her throat awkwardly, “yes. Yes, of course we can do that.” 

 

The softest of smiles spread across Natasha’s face at that, making Wanda’s heart flutter as she forced herself to approach the bed, clambering on carefully and sitting patiently next to the girl, waiting for her to indicate how this was going to go.

 

Natasha giggled at Wanda’s obvious inner turmoil, and Wanda felt something like relief wash over her at the sound—finally, the Natasha she’d come to know seemed to be returning. 

 

“Just lie down,” the redhead said with a smirk that only widened as Wanda blushed deeper but obeyed, moving herself cautiously to lie flat on the left side of the bed. 

 

She could feel her heartbeat thumping in her ears, the blood rushing at an unnatural pace even as Natasha chuckled from somewhere a few feet down and Wanda lifted her head slightly to level her with a playful glare.

 

Then, sooner than she could blink, Natasha was crawling towards her over the mattress on her hands and knees (Wanda desperately tried not to look down Natasha’s shirt as she did, though it was a fairly pointless endeavor), before finally slithering up to press the length of her body atop Wanda’s, one leg hooked around the taller girl’s waist as she nuzzled her cheek into her breastbone and— _Oh my God, we’re cuddling_. 

 

She could feel Natasha’s warm breath ghosting over her collarbone, one of her arms snaking around Wanda’s waist as the redhead let out a small hum of contentedness against the bare skin of her chest. 

 

A moment later, Natasha shifted her head slightly, looking up to eye an almost frozen Wanda. “Is this okay?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” Wanda breathed out in response, slightly in awe of the fact that she was still somehow able to form intelligible words, because Holy _shit_. “This is _definitely_ okay.” 

 

Natasha just smiled beautifully up at her in response, eyes twinkling, then promptly returned to her earlier position nestled comfortably under Wanda’s collarbone, her breaths ghosting slow and even over Wanda’s tingling skin.

 

Wanda’s not sure which of them fell asleep first, though she thinks it may have been her (which was impressive, considering it took her a substantial amount of time to accept that _Yes, this is really happening_ and eventually allow her eyes to flutter closed)—before drifting off, she remembers thinking that maybe this is what it feels like to start trusting someone… to start _loving_ someone. 

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧


	16. "WAKE UP LESBIANS" (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after... but not like _that_.
> 
> It's still cute. And gay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter... would love to hear your thoughts!

Wanda awoke to a disgruntled rambling from a deep voice somewhere off in the distance, most probably male, which immediately had her body tensing stiffly under a peacefully sleeping (and adorably sprawled) Natasha nuzzled into her neck; fear pumping noisily in her chest, she kept her eyes cautiously shut and strained her ears to assess the situation.

 

(She couldn’t count the number of times she’d been rudely awoken in her cage in Sokovia by a random guard’s overzealous monologue about his marital issues, or complaints about the televised game his favorite team had lost the night before—which, obviously was rather annoying just on principle, but with the snake people, that kind of irritability on the guards’ part most always led swiftly to an entirely unsolicited beating or, in the best case scenario, a nasty verbal lashing. 

 

Wanda had come to be very careful when waking up in unfamiliar places—she’d learned early enough that those men couldn’t possibly have cared less that she hadn’t done anything to warrant their continuous cycle of violence.

 

She’d learned early enough to be careful above all else, even in the most ostensibly trivial of times.)

 

“… absolute lesbian disasters—like, we all wanna skip school, okay?” the voice was getting closer… and it sounded suspiciously like Clint, Wanda thought with a wave of pre-emptive relief. "You think I _want_ to be learning Calculus when I’m not even sure what trigonometry is? No! But still, my ass is there, on time, while these two are just lesbian-ing off into the sunset together like they have all the time in the god damn world,” _Yeah, that’s definitely Clint_. Wanda allowed her eyes to flutter open upon her realization, a slight scoff escaping her as Clint’s ranting neared the cracked-open door of Natasha’s room, growing louder with every step. “And news flash: they don’t! Because suddenly I’m sitting there and Mr. Coulson’s all worried and asking _me_ about the residential gay messes, which, for _once_ doesn’t include me, like I’m supposed to have a _single_ clue—"

 

Clint haltingly barged through the doorway, words dying on his tongue when his wide blue eyes focused on a very much awake Wanda lying beneath a lightly snoring Natasha (which, _so_ cute) in the golden morning sunlight filtering through the window pane. 

 

The boy gaped for another moment, mouth opening and closing like a fish on land searching desperately for his words as Wanda shifted to look amusedly at him (his figure appearing sideways in her prone perspective) with a quirked brow. 

 

He looked disheveled as always, in a black T-shirt striped horizontally with purple, and rumpled blue jeans on his lower half ripped at the knees and littered with grass stains, the floppy mess of dirty-blonde hair on his head punctuated by the occasional golden tuft standing straight up on his scalp.

 

(It reminded her a bit of Pietro, she thought, causing a slight ache in her chest; by the looks of things, she’d never gone home last night. 

 

She wasn’t worried that he’d gone hungry or gotten lost, of course—he could take care of himself, she knew, even if he was famously haphazard with his handling of the ever-elusive concept of ‘self-care.’ 

 

But she’d also never spent such a substantial chunk of time away from her twin, having last seen him just after PreCalculus when she walked alongside Natasha to explain to him that Wanda was going to hang out with the redhead, and she’d be home later that night.

 

Obviously, she never came through on that promise.) 

 

Soon enough, though, Clint gathered himself, a slow grin spreading across his dimpled cheeks that easily shattered the slight degree of tension in the room.

 

“Nice one, Maximoff,” he sniggered with an approving nod. “Always knew you had it in you.”

 

Wanda shot him a half-hearted glare. “Fuck off,” she grumbled even as her eyes darted back to her—ahem, _compromising_ —current position, a pliant half-naked Natasha essentially straddling her with gloriously bare pale thighs (the blankets having been discarded unceremoniously onto the floor at some point or another), the girl's sheer white V-neck from yesterday bunched up obscenely high around her ribcage (probably from shifting during the night), allowing for an entirely unhindered view of far more skin Wanda could reasonably handle seeing, especially this early in the morning.

 

She felt her cheeks burn hotly as Clint just crossed his arms smugly, that infuriating grin still fixed upon his handsome features. 

 

Then Clint heaved a dramatic sigh even as Wanda desperately willed the visible flush in her cheeks to abate. 

 

“Well, as fun as this has been,” he lamented, then suddenly clapped twice, _very_ loudly—Natasha’s entire body jumped against Wanda’s at the sudden sound. “WAKE UP LESBIANS!” he shouted with glee, mischief sparkling in his sea-blue irises. 

 

Natasha, meanwhile, had woken very abruptly in response to Clint’s forceful antics, her head rising in the blink of an eye from Wanda’s chest (the brunette felt the loss of Natasha’s warmth most keenly) to observe her surroundings with frantic green eyes. 

 

When her gaze landed on a grinning Clint, unbridled irritation flashed across her pretty features even as Wanda could feel the girl’s tensed muscles relax almost instantly against her. 

 

Natasha didn’t seem be all that aware of the situation yet (particularly the part where she was cuddled up with and straddling Wanda in her bed); Wanda's suspicion of that only increased when the girl allowed her head of sleep-mussed red curls to fall comfortably back against the bare skin of Wanda’s exposed chest, appearing to be blissfully unbothered even as her eyelids again fluttered drowsily open to affix Clint with a deadly glare (or at least, as deadly as she could manage having just awoken—which Wanda thought was probably the most precious thing she’d ever seen). 

 

“I’m gonna kill you,” the redhead muttered, her breath tickling Wanda’s skin (she did her best not to shiver). 

 

Clint didn’t look fazed in the slightest, blathering on regardless of Natasha’s less-than-winning attitude, “You idiots should be thanking me,” he let out a theatric sigh, shaking his head self-deprecatingly. “My genius has never been appreciated.”

 

Natasha, who had allowed her eyelids to slide shut once again, just scoffed, her cheek still delightfully warm against Wanda’s breastbone. 

 

“You and your genius can go fuc—“

 

“You do realize you’ve both missed first period, right?” he said then, tilting his head in an almost birdlike fashion that was actually sort of cute and— 

 

_Wait, what?_

 

Natasha’s head snapped back up, her red curls tickling Wanda’s nose. “Shit,” the girl hissed, then, finally seeming to recognize the presence of the warm body beneath her, turned her gaze abruptly back to stare at Wanda beneath her, mouth agape. “ _Shit_ ,” Natasha repeated breathlessly, their faces less than an inch apart.

 

Wanda just stared dumbly back, completely at a loss as to what to say. “Uh… Hi.” 

 

_You’re such an idiot_ , her brain bemoaned.

 

The redhead’s eyes were wide, her expression frantic. “Hi,” she responded eventually, her voice rough and scratchy from sleep. 

 

“Um,” Clint let out a cough, rolling his eyes when neither girl turned from their intense staring match to acknowledge him. “I’m just gonna go watch some TV while you guys do…” he gestured ambiguously with his hands “… _that_.” Then, without further ado, he was fumbling out of the room (without bothering to shut the door behind him), his soft sneaker-clad footsteps receding further down the hallway. 

 

In the meantime, neither girl had moved—a half-clothed Natasha was still straddling a fully-dressed Wanda (their clothes the only buffer between them), Natasha’s hands placed on either side of the brunette’s head as Wanda’s rested awkwardly at her side and their gazes remained locked on one another. 

 

A moment later, something like recognition was flashing through Natasha’s eyes as she abruptly moved herself to sit upright with the slightest wince for the bruises on her exposed rear (though she was still perched comfortably atop Wanda’s lap), her gaze darting down and then quickly back up to look at Wanda with poorly-disguised alarm written across her features, clearly trying to piece together how exactly they’d gotten there. 

 

“Did we do things last night?” Natasha asked cautiously, intense green eyes boring into a still-horizontal Wanda beneath her. 

 

“Define ‘things.’”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Sex things."

 

Wanda fought the urge to heave a long sigh. “No, Natasha, no ’sex things' happened.” 

 

“Oh,” Natasha replied softly, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “Okay.” 

 

Wanda cocked an eyebrow, not quite sure what to make of the redhead’s response. “What?” 

 

“I…” Natasha flushed, and _God, she looks angelic_ , Wanda thought as she observed the girl’s form positively glowing in the early morning sunlight. “We kissed.” 

 

“We did.” 

 

Natasha squirmed adorably on Wanda’s lap, chewing nervously on her full bottom lip. “Can I kiss you again?”

 

Wanda felt a grin spreading across her face as electricity seemed to course through her entire body, then moved deliberately to sit herself upright, placing her face inches from Natasha’s—she could hear the girl’s breath hitch in her throat as she playfully nudged Natasha’s nose with her own. 

 

“C’mere,” she whispered then, leaning in to capture Natasha’s lips in a lazy but measured kiss, loving how quickly Natasha’s long-sleeve-clad arms came to wrap around her neck as the redheaded girl let out a muted hum of satisfaction, trying to bring Wanda impossibly closer even with their bodies pressed soundly against one another's.

 

Eventually Wanda allowed her hands to rest cautiously at the bare skin of Natasha’s hips (she was entirely undeterred by the raised scarring she could feel beneath her fingertips) as their lips moved languidly against one another's; she smiled into the kiss when Natasha’s fingers began to gently card through the locks of her hair as the kiss deepened, delicate fingers scratching at her scalp and eliciting a low moan from Wanda in response— _God, this is like heaven_ , she thought. 

 

It was the best kind of surprise when she felt Natasha’s tongue begin to trace at the entrance of her lips, and without hesitation she found herself eagerly parting her lips to grant the girl entrance, then suddenly— _Shit. School_ , her brain reminded her sharply. 

 

“We should—“ Wanda mumbled, cut off by another slow and _divine_ kiss from a humming Natasha, “—get to class—” another kiss “—continue this later," she finished breathily once her lips were finally (disappointingly) freed again. 

 

Natasha pulled back, forming a sinful pout on regal features as she gazed at Wanda with childlike chagrin. “Do we have to?” she asked, blinking with overly innocent and impossibly wide green eyes. 

 

_Fuck_.

 

Wanda let out a small huff of breath, hating the pronounced effect Natasha was having on her, warmth tingling in her chest (and further down) even as the logical part of her brain practically screamed at her for the Chemistry lesson she’d just missed. 

 

“I’d much rather do this,” Wanda assured her, leaning to place a firm peck on pink kiss-swollen lips, “but I’m already so behind,” then she paused for a moment, furrowing a brow with an exasperated smirk twitching at her mouth. “Plus, I want to make sure Pietro didn’t burn our trailer down.” 

 

Natasha hummed obligingly as a finger lightly stroked the skin at the nape of Wanda’s neck, her arms still loosely wrapped around the Sokovian girl’s neck—then, seeming to register all of Wanda’s words, she tilted her head. “Trailer?”

 

Wanda felt a slight blush tint her cheeks—she hadn’t meant to spill that bit of information... though, she supposed, there was no going back now. 

 

“We live there,” she said quietly, her gaze darting around to consciously avoid making eye contact with Natasha. “Well, not anymore, after tomorrow, I guess,” she found herself saying, quickly getting lost in her thoughts—something about the safety she felt right now had her speaking candidly in a way she reserved almost solely for talking to Pietro; she decided she liked that feeling. “We’re getting evicted, even though I paid Michelle last week,” Wanda let out a small sigh, "so we’re gonna start staying someplace else.” 

 

“Hey,” Natasha whispered, prompting Wanda to meet those breathtaking green eyes once again with her own. “You don’t have to answer now, but I’d like to think Pietro’s a friend and we… we’re doing,” she paused, lips twitching, “ _this_ … You can both stay here—I have more than enough room.” 

 

Wanda’s brows furrowed, feeling her eyes go wide with unmitigated shock. “You—I—" she stammered. “Are you being serious?”

 

Natasha giggled. “Of course I’m being serious,” she replied easily. “But,” she used deft fingers to stroke a stray lock of hair behind Wanda’s ear, “you don’t have to decide now. Take all the time you need.”

 

With that, Natasha moved up onto her knees, putting Wanda at eye-level with the swell of her full breasts straining beneath the fabric of her sheer top, which, _Wow_ —and then she was swinging her leg up and across Wanda’s lap, hopping with startling agility to land almost soundlessly on the hardwood flooring next to the bed… Wanda tried not to stare at the positively hypnotic bounce of Natasha’s clothed chest and full round cheeks (because of _course_ the beautiful redhead still wasn’t wearing any pants), but really—she was only human. 

 

She blushed deeply at the knowing smirk on Natasha’s face when she finally managed to bring her distracted oggling to Natasha’s eyes rather than her… assets.

 

_Don’t be such a perv_ , she scolded herself.

 

She opened her mouth to apologize, but was quickly beaten to it by Natasha. “Don’t apologize,” the girl drawled, eyes sparkling as she stood before Wanda, completely unashamed in her state of undress. “I like it when you look.”

 

_Holy_ —

 

Wanda grinned widely, swinging her legs to dangle off the edge of the bed as she held Natasha’s gaze in the rays of the soft morning sunlight. 

 

“I can work with that,” she said, mentally applauding herself when she managed not to stutter.

 

Natasha just grinned, offering a hand to a still-sitting Wanda, who quickly took it without little hesitation. 

 

“C’mon,” the redhead urged with a chuckle as she tugged at Wanda’s hand, prompting her to stand. "Let’s go to class before Clint has an aneurysm."

 

“Or yells at us again.”

 

Natasha let out a dramatic sigh. “When did _he_ get so responsible?" 

 

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	17. captain eyepatch (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Natasha have a talk. 
> 
> Somehow, it ends with both of them in the principal's office.
> 
> Also, Natasha's having a hard time resisting the urge to strangle the boy. It's difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: there's a brief mention of suicidal ideation (I'm going to update the tags), and again, a similarly brief depiction of past abuse/rape/non-con. 
> 
> Please be careful: do not read if these things may trigger you!

“Hey! Romanoff!”

 

Natasha didn’t turn around at the sound of Tony’s obnoxious voice, instead just continued through the halls with a sigh, fiddling distractedly with the straps of her book bag even as his shouts grew persistently closer. 

 

“Hey, buddy,” Tony said once he’d managed to catch up with her, slowing to a self-assured stroll beside her.

 

_Dammit_ , Natasha thought.

 

“We’re not buddies.” 

 

Tony pointedly ignored her comment. “So, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

 

“No.” 

 

The boy pouted. “You don’t even know what it is yet!”

 

Natasha quirked an eyebrow but didn’t respond. 

 

“It’s about your girlfriend,” he said in a sing-song voice. “And Sparky!" Natasha fought to keep her sudden peaked interest from showing, or the little skip she’d felt in her chest when he’d referred to Wanda as her girlfriend.

 

_I’m gonna punch him in the throat._

 

Eventually Natasha heaved a long sigh, observing the smug boy for a long moment, internally debating how she should go about handling this. 

 

_Fuck it_ , she thought, reaching decisively to grab Tony by the ear despite his immediate (and vehement) protests, uncaringly dragging him further down the hall past a group of staring freshmen and into Mr. Fitz’s classroom—she knew the man wouldn’t be teaching a class until the afternoon, something she was quite grateful for as she shut the door behind her and turned to fix a flustered Tony with a devastating glare. 

 

“Speak.”

 

Tony rolled his eyes at her bluntness, leaning himself easily onto the wooden desk behind him. “Would it kill you to ask me how _I’m_ doing?” he asked, placing a hand against his chest in mock offense.

 

“It won’t matter how you're doing when I'm ripping your balls off for trying to play around with me.” 

 

Tony’s boyish features paled slightly at that, but to his credit, he recovered fairly quickly. 

 

“You know,” he said in a serious tone, stroking at his non-existent beard. “I think being a lesbian has made you very angry.” 

 

“Funny; I don’t remember asking."

 

“Aw, c’mon,” Tony whined, one hand shoved in the pocket of his no doubt obscenely expensive blue jeans, the other gesturing wildly in the air. “I thought you’d be in a good mood today.”

 

Natasha raised a brow. “How’s that?”

 

She immediately regretted asking as a wicked grin spread across Tony’s face, especially so when he leaned himself closer and wiggled his brows suggestively.

 

“You and that Wanda girl came to school together this morning,” he leered, mirth glistening in his dark brown eyes—Natasha rolled her eyes as the pungent scent of the boy’s pretentious cologne filled her nostrils. 

 

“We’re friends.” 

 

“Oh, yeah,” Tony’s grin widened. “Friends who kiss in the hallways, friends who spend the night together…” Natasha’s eyes narrowed even as she fought to keep the blush from rising to her cheeks. “The two of you are _very_ friendly.” 

 

“I’m sorry, how exactly is that any of this your business?”

 

“Because we’re buddies!”

 

“We’re not buddies.”

 

“Okay, so spill,” Tony said dramatically, completely ignoring her brusque reply. “Is Wanda a gentle lover? Or is she more of a ‘lady in the streets, freak in the—'"

 

“Do you have a death wish?”

 

“—kind of deal, or— _Oh!_ I’ve always wanted to ask: is scissoring a real thing? Like, do lesbians actually _do_ that? Because— _Ow!_ ”

 

Tony cut himself off with a loud yelp of pain when Natasha promptly grabbed one of the boy's flailing hands, pressing down _hard_ on the delicate tendon between his thumb and forefinger (a very effective pressure point taught to her by Mr. Coulson’s badass wife, Ms. May, who was probably one of Natasha’s favorite people on the planet), satisfaction rolling over her in waves as he dropped to his knees on the floor with a whimper, desperately trying to pull his hand from her iron grip, the other clawing weakly at her legging-clad thighs.

 

But of course, because the universe decided her day wasn’t nose-diving nearly spectacularly enough, seconds later the door of the classroom was being unceremoniously yanked open, Tony still squirming before her on his knees as they both whipped their heads around to see none other than Mr. Nick Fury, the principal at Tesseract High, standing ominously in the doorway with a very stern expression across his dark features.

 

_Shit._

 

Both of Mr. Fury’s brows shot towards his non-existent hairline (the man had been bald for as long as Natasha could recall), only one dark-brown pupil visible as the tall imposing man stared (he was blind in one eye, so he routinely wore an eye-patch; Tony had once tried calling him ‘Captain Eyepatch’ and ended up with detention for the rest of the school year)—suddenly, Natasha had the belated realization that _Oh fuck, this does not look good_ : a whimpering Tony was still on his knees before her in the empty classroom, his hand grasped in hers, the other scrabbling pitifully at her thigh.

 

_Shit._

 

She took a deep breath. “Principal Fury, I can explain—“

 

“My office,” he growled. “ _Now_."

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

“I want to preface this discussion by saying that I am deeply disappointed in the both of you,” Principal Fury said in his deep and uncompromising tone, sitting with impeccable posture at the sleek wooden desk in his office.

 

“I’m sorry,” Natasha mumbled out, unable to look the man in the eye—she’d always had something of an issue with that, especially towards authority figures.

 

(She won’t lie; she was half expecting Mr. Fury to transition swiftly from calm and reasonable to sadistic and cruel in zero seconds flat, especially now that they were behind closed doors; she scolded herself harshly at the knowledge that she’d been stupid enough to put herself in this position. Again. 

 

She thinks Alexei may have been right when he’d told her it was no one’s fault but her own that all those men had to fuck her into submission—all she had to do was be good; if she was good, they’d never have a reason to hurt her. 

 

And here? She’d been bad. She’d been _very_ bad.

 

She deserved every horrible thing that was coming her way.)

 

There was a long silence where Principal Fury just stared—not at her, but at Tony who sat in the cushioned chair beside her—after a long moment, she realized what he was waiting for: Tony hadn't apologized yet.

 

_Is he stupid?_ Natasha thought bitterly, fear filling her gut at the likely possibility that Stark’s resistance would only serve to fuel Principle Fury's anger, making things that much worse when he unleashed the full extent of his wrath upon her.

 

Not to mention, her butt was _still_ bruised—there was no way she’d be able to withstand another beating without sending herself into a mental fucking _tailspin_ , much less lie there and let this grown man jackhammer into her sore body, no matter how much she knew she deserved it. 

 

No, that would be it for her—it’d been a long time since she’d thought about getting Yevgeni’s old Makarov pistol and blowing her brains to high heaven, but she knew in her very bones that this would easily be enough to finally push her over the edge if things went sideways. 

 

In her world, things _always_ went sideways. 

 

Eventually, hearing Tony heave a long sigh pulled her from her thoughts, and palpable relief curled in Natasha’s stomach at the sound, indicative of resignation (at least, to some degree).

 

_Maybe I won’t be needing Daddy’s trusty pistol after all_ , she thought sourly, even as she knew it was a morbid sentiment. 

 

“‘M sorry too,” the boy muttered finally, eyeing his shoelaces intently.

 

Principal Fury just nodded, his features stoic as ever. “This year, we haven’t really had a problem with this—until now,” he eyed them with a withering glare. “But the two of you just couldn’t keep it in your pants."

 

_Huh?_

 

Natasha instantly stiffened, whipping around to face Tony sitting on her left, both their faces twisted into the very embodiment of utter confusion and the slightest hint of horror. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Natasha squeaked timidly as she turned back to face Mr. Fury, still not daring to look him in the eye. “What did you mean by that?” 

 

Principal Fury just pursed his lips, eyeballing them with obvious vexation. “Sex on the premises is strictly forbidden,” he said finally, the words sounding almost robotic, as if he’d taken them straight from the student handbook.

 

_What the_ —

 

“Wait, _what?_ ” Tony practically screeched, his features incredulous. “You think we—I—She—You— _What?_ "

 

Inwardly, Natasha practically gagged at the very idea of having sex with Tony Stark even as she scrambled to articulate just how horrifically _wrong_ the man’s assumption was.

 

She sputtered, “We weren’t—"

 

“We didn’t—"

 

“I’m gay—I mean, not straight—Lesbian!” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “Like, really _really_ gay. Like, walking human rainbow. Lesbianic!” she felt herself rambling, which she knew was literally the last thing she needed right now, especially as Fury’s eyebrows rose with every babbled word, but somehow, she just couldn’t stop. “No boys— _men_ , I mean. No men. No, sir. Just girls,” she finished with deeply flushed cheeks, forcing her traitorous mouth to shut even as Principal Fury fixed her with a deeply unimpressed expression. 

 

“And I—Same!” Tony choked out, his eyes bulging. “I mean, not a lesbian, obviously, cause _duh_ ,” Natasha felt the slightest bit better as the boy stumbled over his words in a very similar fashion to her previous ramblings. “I just—Not—I have a _boyfriend!_ This is absolutely—"

 

“You have a _boyfriend?_ ” The question tumbled out of Natasha’s mouth even as she begged herself to stop talking (Principal Fury more or less forgotten for the moment), so overcome with shock at the boy’s sudden admission, because Since _when?_

 

A blush spread almost immediately across Tony’s cheeks as he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “Maybe,” he mumbled shyly. 

 

Natasha gaped. “Holy—"

 

“Enough!” Principal Fury interrupted testily, both students unwittingly sinking further into their seats under his one-eyed glare. “Let me get this straight—“

 

Tony snickered and Natasha felt her lips twitch despite herself at the unintentional innuendo, though all signs of amusement quickly faded from both of their faces as the displeased crease in the principal’s forehead deepened. 

 

“—you two expect me to believe,” he growled, "that you were in an empty classroom in that,” Principal Fury cleared his throat then, looking distinctly uncomfortable, “ _compromising_ position for the sole purpose of…” 

 

“Queer solidarity?” Tony piped up with a suggestion as Mr. Fury trailed off, clearly at a loss for words. 

 

Natasha fought the urge to roll her eyes.

 

The man pursed his lips again but nodded. “Yes. That.” 

 

Meanwhile, Natasha’s brain was flashing back to their conversation, trying to understand what exactly Principal Fury thought he’d seen: Tony on his knees on the floor, Natasha standing before him, the boy’s close proximity as he writhed, and—

 

Oh my God. 

 

Oh my _God_.

 

He thought Tony was going down. On _her_. In an _empty classroom_. At _school_.

 

Nausea swirled in her stomach even as she fought to maintain a straight face. 

 

Tony seemed to come to the same conclusion with similar timing, if his next indignant protests were anything to go by: “Wait a se—Hold on… You—I—You thought _I_ was on my _knees_ to give her _head_ —" 

 

“Finish that sentence and I’ll have you suspended,” Fury snarled through gritted teeth. 

 

Tony promptly gulped it down. 

 

“I wouldn’t…” Natasha racked her brain for the words to resolve this fucking _nightmare_ of a misunderstanding even as she fought to keep her voice from trembling, “… doing _that_ at _school?_ Sir, I would never, I promise.” 

 

Fury’s eyes— _eye_ , she reminded herself—seemed to narrow even further.

 

_I can’t believe this is happening_. She vaguely felt as if she might pass out, shriveling under the man’s unwavering gaze. 

 

Then Tony was abruptly leaning forward like he’d just thought of something, a hint of playfulness glinting in his wide brown eyes even under Principal Fury’s terrifying glower.

 

_Oh dear Lord_ , Natasha thought. _Please don’t do anything stupid Please don’t do anything stupid Please_ —

 

“You know, Mr. Fury, I will say that I _do_ like how feminist and open-minded your thinking is here,” the boy spoke loftily with a relaxed sigh even as Natasha wished for the ground beneath them to swallow her whole. “It’s so _rare_ to see portrayals of the man giving to the woman rather than the other way around during intercourse,” _Yep_ , Natasha thought as her eyes darted up to catch a glimpse of the almost murderous look on Principal Fury’s face, _We’re screwed_. “And I think it’s just very forward-thinking of you—“

 

“Stop. Talking,” Fury snarled. 

 

Tony quickly complied, which, Thank _God_.

 

“You both have detention for the next two—“

 

“Weeks?” Tony interrupted hopefully even as Natasha resisted the almost overpowering urge to turn and smack him, because _Christ_ , it was like he was _trying_ to make things worse. 

 

“—months,” Principal Fury finished, his glare boring steadily into a gaping Tony. 

 

Tony’s jaw opened and closed almost comically as he registered Fury’s words. “I—"

 

He abruptly cut himself off as Natasha delivered a swift kick to his chair, the boy turning to affix her with a resentful glare in response.

 

She just shrugged incrementally, still feeling the weight of Principal Fury’s one-eyed stare upon them. 

 

“Now,” the man barked, rubbing at his temples in unmistakable exhaustion. “Get the _hell_ out of my office."

 

Natasha had never obeyed a command so quickly in her life. 

 

(Which, considering her history? That was saying something.)

 

She was going to _kill_ Tony. 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put a couple of subtle references in here to One Day at a Time and Grey's Anatomy because I think those shows are freaking hilarious... let me know if you caught them!! :)
> 
> And as always, would love to hear any feedback / thoughts!


	18. glenn talbot, IT department (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha tells Wanda about detention... or, she tries. Sort of. 
> 
> It's complicated. 
> 
> Also, on her way to detention, Natasha gets a call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter! enjoy:)

“You got _detention?_ ” Wanda asked, her expression caught halfway between amusement and concern as she stood across from Natasha just outside the Tesseract High auditorium, the outdoor space relatively isolated save for a few students here and there lounging in the grass for the remainder of their lunch.

 

(Natasha, meanwhile, was trying not to stare, because God, Wanda looked positively radiant today—black high-top Converse, ridiculously form-fitting grey leggings that looked as if they were painted onto her willowy legs, a tight long-sleeved scarlet workout top, and to top it all off, her chestnut-colored hair was pulled up into a gloriously high ponytail that swished hypnotically as she walked.

 

And to make things worse, those weren’t Wanda’s clothes—no, they were _Natasha’s_. 

 

When they’d woken up late this morning, she’d offered to drive back to the trailer so Wanda could freshen up before they headed over to Tesseract together—it would probably ensure that they missed their entire second block class as well, but Natasha didn’t mind… just as long as Wanda was comfortable.

 

Wanda, though, had brushed it off, saying that no, there was no reason to be later than they already were—then, an adorable blush tinting her cheeks, she’d shyly asked if Natasha might be alright with lending her some clothes for the day. 

 

Natasha thought she just might faint in that moment, but she managed a somewhat coherent response, dumbly pointing the girl in the general direction of her closet and saying she could choose whatever she liked, before promptly fleeing to the bathroom to take an absolutely _freezing_ 5-minute shower.

 

And then, when she came out, Wanda was wearing _that_ , and… Well. )

 

Both girls had spent the majority of their 45-minute lunch break walking through the recess fields after grabbing a quick bite in the cafeteria with Clint and Daisy and the rest of them—it was peaceful, Natasha thought, standing amidst the cool breeze of the wind, rays of gentle sunlight falling warmly across her cheeks. She felt… safe.

 

But the question Wanda had just posed? That was anything but. 

 

“Yeah,” she mumbled grudgingly in response, leaning forward to rest her forehead tiredly on Wanda’s shoulder. “For two months.”

 

“Holy—" Wanda yelped haltingly, her voice sounding rather strained even as she stroked Natasha’s shoulder-length red locks in an undeniably soothing motion. “Two _months?_ What happened?” 

 

Natasha reluctantly pulled herself back, though she was feeling a certain degree of difficulty with trying to look Wanda in the eye—because not only had she gotten into trouble with _Tony Stark_ of all people, but also had unwittingly managed to wholeheartedly convince their very scary principal that she’d done so by deciding to have _sex_ with the billionaire brat on school premises.

 

“I, um—" she stopped herself, biting her lip nervously. _What if she doesn’t believe me?_ she thought. _What if she thinks I’m dirty, too, just like Yevgeni and all of his friends? What if she never speaks to me again?_ Her brain was going into overdrive, every horrible possibility bubbling to the surface, anxiety crawling into her throat and making her feel as if she might just stop breathing altogether. “I—I didn’t—It—It was an accident, I promise!” she managed to chokingly blurt out, finally allowing her desperate gaze to meet Wanda’s.

 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Wanda urged in a quiet and comforting tone, reaching slowly but deliberately for Natasha’s hands at her side and grasping them warmly in hers when the redhead didn’t move to pull away. “Talk to me. What happened?”

 

Natasha forced herself to breathe, searching frantically for the words to make Wanda understand that she didn’t do anything wrong, that she didn’t mean to fuck things up so badly—she couldn’t afford to make the brunette girl angry at her, not after this morning and last night, not after Natasha was starting to believe in maybe being happy someday, not after she was starting to _need_ Wanda so badly that it hurt. 

 

“I—"

 

_Rrrrriiiiiinnnnnnggg!!!_ came the sound of the bell for next period, easily cutting off what probably would’ve been a spectacularly poor attempt at an explanation on Natasha’s part—honestly, she was rather grateful for the interruption. 

 

“I—Uh, I—" she stammered, hating how deeply Wanda’s concerned gaze was affecting her. “I-I have to go to class.” 

 

Wanda let out a small sigh, nodding slowly. “Me too. Can we walk together?” 

 

Alarm bells instantly went off in Natasha’s head—there was no way she could keep up her semi-casual facade for even one more minute, not with Wanda looking at her with such kindness and vulnerability in her eyes and asking if they could walk to class together like close friends, or maybe something more than that—no, she was sure she’d fucking _break_ if she let herself bask in it all, if she let herself taste a hint of something she wanted more than anything only to have it obliterated once Wanda knew the truth about her and inevitably decided to leave. 

 

No, the truth about Natasha was the farthest thing from pretty—she knew that. But she was selfish enough to hide it as best she could from Wanda Maximoff, because she liked that the Sokovian girl looked at her like something… something _good_ ; she’d never had that before, and it was like a drug she was loathe to quit. 

 

“I—Uh, actually,” she stumbled over the words, searching frenziedly for an excuse, “I, um, said I would meet Mr. Fitz before class so I—Um—"

 

“You have to go,” Wanda supplied for her, something like sadness glinting in her beautiful blue eyes (dotted with hazel, Natasha’s brain reminded her unhelpfully). 

 

“Um, yeah,” she coughed awkwardly, clutching her books tighter to her chest. “Bye.”

 

The Sokovian girl just nodded again, her shoulders slightly hunched. “Bye,” she replied quietly. 

 

At that, Natasha spun on her heel, jogging until she was out of the other girl's sight line before breaking into a run, her eyes burning with unshed tears even as she begged for them not to fall. 

 

_Fuck._

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

It was finally the end of the godforsaken school day, and by all means, Natasha was more than ready to just get the next two hours of detention over with.

 

She’d managed to survive her last block, where she worked as a Teaching Assistant in the Advanced Computer Sciences course—which, really, had just been Natasha doing the brunt of the teaching for as long as she could remember, because Mr. Talbot was an utterly incompetent and yet insanely demanding man, one who still couldn't manage for the life of him to properly save a file on the hard-drive on even the best of days. 

 

What’s more, he often tended to just sit there barking orders and saying things like ‘0900 hours’ instead of 9:00am like every other normal civilian in America. 

 

It was rather hard to take him seriously most of the time.

 

She’s still not quite sure how he got his job in the IT Department, but she thinks he might be better suited to being a Colonel in the military (definitely something with a gun and a uniform), where the majority of the job consists largely of maintaining preternaturally straight posture and yelling commands like it’s a nuclear international war zone. 

 

Mr. Talbot excelled at yelling and being stiff and keeping a painstakingly-groomed mustache on his upper lip that never failed to make Natasha genuinely curious as to how he was still happily married to a quite attractive middle-aged woman who, by all accounts, appeared to be painfully normal and really quite elegant in a way Mr. Talbot just wasn't. 

 

Yeah, she thinks—the army would be a good fit for Glenn Talbot. 

 

But, nevertheless: the point is, Natasha had survived. 

 

She’d taught the class while Mr. Talbot sat wolfing down the tacos his wife had dropped off for him at the front office (he took his Taco Tuesdays _very_ seriously), and fielded every dumbass question from the small crowd of teenagers assembled in the computer lab, most of which definitely had no business even stepping foot in a Computer Science course, much less one with the prefix ‘Advanced.’ 

 

But, whatever. She was done. 

 

She was done, and on her way to Mr. Grant Ward’s classroom (the very grumpy but also extraordinarily jacked Physical Education and Health coach), where she would be serving the next two hours with one Tony Stark for her first of many detentions to come over the next two months. While she was there, she was planning to read a book, or maybe do some Calculus—anything to prevent her thoughts from inevitably drifting to Wanda, who’d looked like a kicked puppy the last time Natasha had seen her, and for good reason… it also probably didn’t help that she'd practically jumped at the first chance to run away from the girl, either. 

 

She sighed to herself. _I’m such an asshole._

 

She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or just plain annoyed when her cell began vibrating in the waistband of her leggings, her brow quirking when she saw Clint’s name on the caller ID along with a treasured photo she’d taken of the boy sleeping soundly in a puddle of his own drool amidst an impressive disarray of sloppily compiled Biology study guides on the floor of his bedroom—preparing for finals had been quite the affair last year, Natasha remembers.

 

With a ghost of a smile on her face, she tapped the green circle, placing her phone casually against her ear. 

 

“What’s up?” 

 

“Tash,” the boy’s frantic voice came through the receiver, his breathing ragged—immediately Natasha felt her entire body stiffen. “You need to come over. Right now.” 

 

“What? Clint, I have detention,” she paused for a moment, brows furrowed as she halted herself in the middle of the bustling halls, various students milling past. “How bad is it?”

 

Clint was silent for a moment. “Bad,” he mumbled, his voice quiet enough that she could scarcely hear it over the chatter of students around her. 

 

“Fuck,” she cursed, gripping the straps of her book bag tighter on her shoulders and turning abruptly around to speed-walk through the halls towards the exit. “I’m on my way.” 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗


	19. i'm not a fucking doctor (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are a bit fucked in the Barton household... it's not ideal. 
> 
> Also, they both completely forgot about dinner at Mr. Coulson's. 
> 
> Overall, it quickly becomes a rather complicated afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter!! Hope you enjoy:)

Clint was right. It was _bad_.

 

She’d practically burnt rubber getting herself to the Barton household, barely remembering to tap the lock button on her set of car keys when she clambered out of the vehicle, only vaguely hearing the chirp of her car behind her that indicated it was indeed locked before she was bursting through their front door, then scrambling down the dimly lit adjoining hallway and into the kitchen to assess the situation, which, Oh _shit_. 

 

Clint’s older brother Barney (he looked much like a taller, beefier version of Clint, except his hair was an auburn red and his skin was a little lighter) was sprawled haphazardly across the tile, held precariously upright by the kitchen cabinets, blood trickling steadily from his mouth and from a small but deep-looking cut over his left brow—all in all, he didn’t look to be all that aware of his current situation: there was a faraway look in his eyes, his blood-stained lips slightly agape, his T-shirt-clad chest expanding and contracting rhythmically as he let out unnaturally slow and even (though a bit strained) breaths. 

 

Undoubtedly, his injuries were far worse than a limited surface-level scan could tell her.

 

Clint, meanwhile, was kneeled before him, Barney’s blood covering his hands and soaking through his jeans at the knees, a frantic look in his sharp blue eyes. His head snapped up when Natasha ran inside, the girl instantly taking notice of the reddening mark on the younger boy's left cheekbone, one that would likely bruise in the next few days. 

 

(They'd hit Clint. 

 

They'd hit _Clint_. 

 

She’d get them back for that, whoever they were.)

 

“Christ,” she breathed, already reaching for the tissues on the granite countertop, her body seeming to move of its own accord as she shoved the box into Clint’s bloody hands and sharply ordered him to apply pressure on his brother’s wounds while she ran to grab the first-aid kit, which she knew he kept under his bed for emergencies.

 

_Yeah_ , she thought as she turned sharply around a corner, her Converse-clad feet squeaking harshly on the hardwood flooring. _This definitely qualifies as an emergency_.

 

It didn’t even cross her mind to call an ambulance, or drive Barney to a hospital—much like Clint and Natasha, the older Barton’s file, when entered into a governmental database (as was protocol for all hospitals and Urgent Cares nationwide), would most immediately provide more than enough probable cause for police officers and social workers and employees of Child Protective Services to suspect something was wrong, and start making their infamous unsolicited visitations, where they would inevitably stumble across the vast network of exploited loopholes and blatant illegalities upon which the three of them had deigned to build their lives… and then they’d _really_ be fucked. 

 

She quickly pushed that train of thought out of her mind. She had to focus. 

 

Seconds later, she was sprinting back into the bright kitchen space (afternoon light streaming through the un-shuttered windows) with an unceremonious squeak as the rubber soles of her shoes slid across tile, clutching the plastic white container in shaking hands, arriving just in time to see Barney coughing up mouthfuls of thick crimson blood into his lap and further staining the baggy jeans he wore. 

 

_Shit_.

 

Dropping the first-aid kit unceremoniously onto the granite countertop, she placed a slightly trembling hand on Clint’s shoulder to get his attention even as Barney hacked uncontrollably on the floor, his large body jerking violently with every cough. 

 

“We need to get him up on the table,” she said as calmly as she could manage, her heart aching at the lost look in Clint’s wide-eyed gaze as the boy gripped his older brother’s hand tightly, as if scared he might disappear entirely should he dare to let go—still relatively motionless, Clint turned to stare blankly at her like a lost boy without his parents in a big city department store, and _Fuck_ , it’d been a long time since Natasha had seen him like that. “Now,” she added emphatically, breathing out a muted sigh of relief when Clint jolted abruptly into action, clumsily scrambling to curl an arm around his brother’s waist as Natasha did the same on his other side, the two eventually managing to hoist the older Barton up into a standing position— _Christ, he’s heavy_ , Natasha thought, the muscles in her arms shaking beneath the strain—and shuffle him out from the blood-stained kitchen. 

 

By the time they’d effectively managed to drag a near catatonic Barney to the dining table, she felt sweat beading on her forehead, Clint’s labored breathing coming in time with hers as they carefully lowered the heavy man onto the sleek black-painted wooden tabletop, doing their very best to be gentle with him as he let out a small groan.

 

“It’s okay, bud,” Clint reassured him in a soft tone, though uncertainty was palpable beneath the words. “It’s okay.” 

 

While Clint gripped his brother’s hand tightly, whispering soothing reassurances as various involuntary choking sounds escaped the injured man’s throat, Natasha quickly ran back to snatch the plastic white first-aid box from the kitchen countertop, then raced as quickly as she could back to the dining table. 

 

Clint’s eyes widened when Natasha, after digging wildly through the first-aid supplies for a split second, produced a small glinting pair of scissors, her gaze almost regretful as she deliberately approached Barney’s limp form on the table, tool in hand. 

 

“Natasha, what the _hell?_ ” the boy practically squeaked, panic evident in his stifled voice. 

 

“His shirt needs to come off,” she replied clinically, feeling somewhat detached from reality as she forcibly worked to push her emotions far beneath the surface— _Clint and his brother need me right now_. “I think his ribs are either cracked or broken; I don’t want to irritate them further.” 

 

Clint was silent for a moment, but sooner than she could blink, the indignant expression was dropping from his face as he gave her a sharp nod. “Do it.” 

 

(She felt a rush of something like pride at how well Clint was battling to stay in control of his fear, even with his brother bleeding and struggling for air on the dining room table—she didn’t want to get ahead of herself by any means, but she vowed wordlessly that if they got through this, she'd make him the biggest goddamned stack of pancakes he’d ever seen.

 

He deserved it, for being so brave.)

 

Nodding to herself, she gripped the hem of Barney’s blood-stained purple T-shirt, cursing the slight tremor in her hands as she did her very best to snip a steady path straight up the chest, careful to keep the blades from even grazing the reddened skin of the man’s erratically expanding chest as she snipped through the collar, then moved to cut shakily from there to each short sleeve’s end on either side. 

 

Peeling the shirt back to reveal his bare and fairly muscular chest (he and Clint had always been very into sports, with an almost unusual affinity for archery—on a separate note, she was glad to see that Barney appeared to have shaved recently) mottled with purple bruising around his pale ribcage, along with darkening bruises surrounding his collarbone, she sighed, knowing she wouldn’t be able to assess him properly from where she stood awkwardly leaning over the table—after a moment’s deliberation, she was hoisting herself up to more or less straddle the bloody young man, being careful not to place any unwanted pressure on his injuries even as her mind flashed unwittingly back to the very similar position she’d adopted just this morning with one Wanda Maximoff. 

 

_God_ , she’d looked like an angel from on high, she remembers: ocean-blue eyes so soft and open, long brunette hair mussed from sleep in the cutest fashion, her body firm and warm beneath Natasha’s—if the Russian girl didn't already know for sure that she’d never be religious, well… That experience held a certain level of unexplainable and almost otherworldly beauty, one that might just have succeeded in making her a believer had it reached her at a considerably younger and more impressionable age.

 

Another strained cough from Barney lying limply beneath her had her quickly snapping back to reality, all thoughts of Wanda falling quickly (albeit a bit hesitantly) to the background— _Focus, Natasha_ , her brain scolded. 

 

“Clint,” she stated, her words coming out rough and gravelly, not looking up from her close examination of Barney’s ribs and throat as she addressed the younger Barton. “Go get me a flashlight.” 

 

She heard rather than saw the boy immediately stumbling off to obey her request, allowing herself the tiniest grin as he did—because yes, Clint was rather adorable… But more importantly, she felt a glorious sort of relief building tentatively in her belly, because as far as she could tell by the pattern of bruising on his sweat-beaded chest, Barney’s ribs were merely cracked and not broken— _Thank God_. 

 

Again, she wasn’t the religious type (she never had been), but if she were, she's certain she would’ve prayed gratuitously right then and there in fervent thanks to the Big Guy Upstairs for telling Death to come back another day, because cracked ribs meant no chance of a punctured a lung, which meant Barney was coughing up the (relatively) good kind of blood (i.e. the one that _didn’t_ indicate a tension pneumothorax in the chest cavity), meaning that they wouldn’t have to try sticking a tube into the side of his torso through a fairly deep incision in order to alleviate the pressure, which, considering that Natasha had only ever seen such a thing performed on the occasional late-night rerun of Grey’s Anatomy (Clint positively _adored_ that show), was a fucking _godsend_.

 

But for all her pre-emptive respite, she was nothing if not thorough; she always covered her bases, and this was no exception: when Clint returned seconds later with the flashlight, she quickly took it from the wide-eyed boy in marginally unsteady hands, then leaned delicately over Barney’s chest to guide the man’s bruised jaw wide open despite his weak and muffled protests, searching for a source of the blood in his mouth—and _Oh, thank Christ_ , she thought when the LED beam illuminated a deep and still-bleeding U-shaped cut on the boy’s tongue, the teeth-shaped grooves indicating he’d probably just been abruptly forced to bite down _hard_ when he'd been hit. 

 

.. Which, obviously still wasn't necessarily a good thing, but it was a hell of a lot better than near certain death by way of a very painful tension pneumothorax while Natasha stabbed a prayer-driven tube into his ribcage as if she were playing some horribly gruesome offshoot of Russian Roulette, one in which death was a more likely outcome than anything else, especially since Natasha wasn’t a _fucking_ doctor. 

 

Put simply, a little gratitude didn’t seem to be completely unreasonable as Natasha breathed a full-body sigh of relief and used a couple tissues to wipe listlessly at the blood spatters on Barney’s cheeks, because, _He’s going to be okay_.

 

_He’s going to be okay._

 

Eventually she set the blood-soaked tissues aside as Barney’s breathing evened out, decently satisfied with her clean-up as she turned to look at a stock-still Clint with a relieved smile on her face. “He’s gonna be fine,” she assured him in a breathy tone, feeling warmth bloom in her chest as the boy’s features instantly broke into a grin at her words. 

 

The wide grin only remained in place for the briefest of moments, though, before it was quickly fading. “A-Are you sure?” he questioned shakily, obviously doing his very best to keep his smile from growing again across his cheeks—like Natasha, he knew very well just how badly it hurt to accept good news at face value; they’d both come to understand hope was a tricky fucking feeling, one that had most certainly kicked both their asses to hell and back on multiple different occasions. 

 

“Yeah,” she said softly, moving slowly and carefully to dismount from the table, eventually landing soundlessly onto the hardwood flooring next to an almost desperate-looking Clint. “Ribs are only cracked, lungs are good, and by all other physical indicators he’s just fine—the blood he was choking on is coming from a cut on his tongue. I think he just bit down too hard when he got hit,” she paused, knowing the tentative expression on Clint’s features very well—he wasn’t quite letting himself believe it yet. “Clint, Barney's going to be just fine,” she repeated, stubbornly holding his disoriented gaze until he finally blinked, awareness slowly returning to him in waves. “Okay?” 

 

Finally, Clint nodded, sparks of happiness glinting beneath the glazed look in his startling blue eyes. “Okay.” 

 

They were silent for a moment, watching as Barney’s eyes fluttered closed, a pained but content look on the man's reddened features as his breaths grew long and slow—she could feel Clint’s unusually stiff posture beginning to relax incrementally with every easy breath his horizontal brother took on the table, and she sent up a silent 'Thank you’ to a god she didn’t believe in that Clint didn’t have to lose his brother today. 

 

After a little while, Natasha spoke. “We need to get him some painkillers.” 

 

“Yeah,” Clint sighed. “I’ll talk to Bakshi.” 

 

(Sunil Bakshi was… a tentative acquaintance of theirs. He’d always sold them the best and cleanest drugs on the market thus far, with fair prices and the occasional discount when he was feeling generous… though, to be fair, that was rather rare. 

 

Predictably, they tried their best to keep business with Bakshi at a minimum—it wasn’t exactly customary for kids their age to be packing AK-47’s; whatever Bakshi’s reason for owning such insane firepower, they figured they were better off staying far away.

 

But for this? A couple weeks’ worth of oxy to alleviate Barney’s pain? 

 

Natasha didn’t have to think twice about it.

 

She’d shoot Bakshi a text later tonight.)

 

“I still can’t believe that that’s his real name,” she muttered back, relief curling in her chest when Clint let out a small amused huff of air. 

 

“I think it’s Persian." 

 

Natasha just hummed, feeling her eyelids droop as the rush of adrenaline from earlier began to fade. “‘M tired,” she mumbled, leaning her head on Clint’s strong shoulder beside her. 

 

She felt him nod then swallow thickly, before he was dropping his head to rest upon hers, both still watching Barney’s sprawled figure with hazy but attentive eyes “Me too.” 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

A while later, the two were sitting on the hardwood flooring against the wall (unwilling to track bloodstains onto the fairly well-kempt furniture in the adjacent rooms), Natasha’s head lolled lazily on Clint’s shoulder as she attempted to fight off sleep from taking her, the dining table just five feet away from their crouched forms still supporting a blissfully unconscious Barney who’d begun lightly snoring at some point or another over the last hour.

 

Vaguely, her thoughts shifted to the detention she’d missed, wondering how exactly that had gone—she’d never seen the eternally grumpy Mr. Ward interact with the perpetual pain-in-the-ass Tony Stark, but she imagined it was probably quite the entertaining dynamic, something she felt rather sorry to have missed.

 

Oh, well, she supposed—she had a solid two months left of mandatory detention with both strong-willed characters, so really, it wasn’t a terribly big loss on her part; she’d have plenty of time to observe the famed 'irresistible force paradox’ (or: what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object), an obnoxious Tony being the ‘unstoppable force,’ and the very irritable Mr. Ward serving as the 'immovable object.' 

 

Yeah, detention was going to be a prolific source of entertainment; that much was almost guaranteed. But, it could wait: as far as she was concerned, she could rest with Clint for a little while—the two of them had earned it.

 

So she sat there, feeling something like relaxed for the first time in as long as she could remember, but all the while there was a nagging thought in the back of her brain: _You're forgetting something_ , it taunted her, even as she did her best to ignore it, not knowing what she could’ve possibly— _Oh my God._ Her eyes snapped open. _Dinner. Coulson._

 

_Wanda_.

 

Suddenly she was jerking her head from under Clint’s as the realization hit her, ignoring his slight yelp of surprise (and the stinging impact) as their temples collided, her brain suddenly firing thought after thought at an almost concerning pace, because _Shit_.

 

“Fuck!” she practically yelped, her voice frantic as she abruptly stood, barely registering Clint blindly following her lead beside her.

 

“What?” he groaned, a bloody hand coming up to scratch the mess of dirty-blonde hair on his scalp—she didn’t have the energy at that moment to even bother warning him as he unwittingly smeared crimson blood into his golden locks, because—

 

“Dinner! With May and Coulson!” 

 

Clint’s eyes widened, his hand dropping promptly to his side. “FUCK.”

 

Fishing her phone out of her back pocket and pointedly ignoring the droplets of blood transferring from her fingers to the screen, she checked the time: 6:02. 

 

_Crap._

 

What’s more, she had three missed calls from Daisy, and about seven texts (all essentially saying the same thing: _"where the hell are u?!”_ , each one more worry-filled than the last. 

 

Had this been any other situation, she’d probably have been entirely content with just pulling a no-show and coming up with some ridiculous but ultimately unquestionable explanation in the meantime to satisfy whoever it was she’d bailed on, but this was Mr. Coulson and Mrs. May. These “family dinners" often came at least once every other month, and it wasn’t a big secret amongst the kids that Coulson and May had begun the tradition primarily to check in on the sketchier boys and girls who didn’t have parents—in Clint and Natasha’s case (and now, she supposed, Pietro and Wanda’s, too) it was just an added bonus that they also happened to be Daisy’s friends. 

 

As far as Coulson and May were concerned, Natasha and Clint lived with Barney, who had years ago applied for and sufficiently completed the necessary paperwork for both kids’ adoptions (Natasha had forged the certificates to give as proof to a very skeptical Melinda May, who remained rather disbelieving but was unable to find anything actually _wrong_ with the documents that would warrant any sort of confrontation). 

 

But still, Mr. Coulson and his wife weren’t stupid—and to make matters worse, they were good people, too. 

 

Despite her very best efforts to feel differently, Natasha loved Mr. Coulson and Mrs. May in a way she’d never loved her own parents—they were safe. Kind. 

 

(Though, to be fair, her own parents had set the bar almost comically low; she doesn’t think she’s ever known a pair who were as fucked up and nasty as hers, although Clint’s might come in fairly close second.) 

 

She and Clint trusted Daisy’s parents, of course, but they weren't certain that the two best (and _only_ ) adults in their lives would accept their less-than-legal living accommodations for what they were, at least not without making calls to all the wrong people in a well-meaning but ultimately disastrous attempt to “help.” 

 

No, they couldn’t afford to arouse any kind of suspicion with Mrs. May and Mr. Coulson—if they did, she knew she’d be kissing her half-baked plan for their higher education at university goodbye. 

 

And as she stared at the time displayed on her touch screen, which almost tauntingly seized that opportunity to change from 6:02 to 6:03, she could feel visceral alarm washing over her in powerful waves, a continuous cadence of ticking in her ears—it was as if she could literally _hear_ the time dwindling, could hear every second, minute, and _hour_ as it pulled unyieldingly at the very ground beneath her feet.

 

Clint peered over her shoulder, letting out another curse under his breath when he saw the time. “Dinner started at 6, right?” 

 

Natasha sighed. “Yeah.” 

 

“Shit,” Clint hissed, whirling around to look for… something (though Natasha really wasn’t sure what it could be) as his eyes darted frantically from one place to another. “We need to leave. _Now_.” 

 

She fought the urge to roll her eyes, looking from Clint’s blood-stained clothing back to her own—they definitely couldn’t show up to dinner looking as if they’d just violently murdered some poor unsuspecting hitchhiker with an ice pick… Coulson and May would call the police for _sure_. (And honestly? For good reason.) 

 

“No, we need to take _showers_ ,” Natasha corrected sternly, “and then we can leave.”

 

Clint head bobbed up and down almost too quickly in a jerky nodding motion—then his eyes were widening, brow furrowed as he gestured almost hysterically at Barney’s still-sleeping form on the table. “What about him?!”

 

Natasha bit her lip. “He’ll be fine. We’ll lock the doors. He’s 20 years old; he can take care of himself.” At Clint’s hesitant expression, she sighed, then added: “We’ll leave a note in case he wakes up. Okay?” 

 

The crease of Clint’s forehead deepened as he thought it over; then, seeming to more or less accept it, shot her a nod—and a moment later, he was turning quickly on his heel to sprint down the hallway, presumably to go shower. 

 

With Clint gone, she lingered in the dining room for a brief minute, her eyes searching rapidly for a piece of paper and a writing implement—seconds later, she let out a triumphant “A-ha!” as she snatched up a bright-red Sharpie and a long torn strip of yellow notebook paper, in far too much of a hurry to be embarrassed by her almost childlike exclamation. 

 

She worked quickly, scribbling in what she hoped to be at least vaguely legible writing: 

_Left for dinner. Your ribs are cracked, so take it easy… You’re lucky they aren’t broken._   
_Drink some water, too._   
_Clint should be back soon._  
_Love you, B—hang in there._  
_\- Natasha_

 

More or less satisfied with her message, she capped the Sharpie, then tapped urgently at her phone to check the time—6:06. 

 

_Fucking hell_ , she thought exasperatedly, before whipping around to fucking _book_ it for the second of two bathrooms in the Barton household—it’d be a bloody _miracle_ (pun very much intended) if they managed to pull this off. 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗


	20. what kind of person steals candy from a baby? (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pietro and Wanda talk, and unlike Clint and Natasha, they actually do remember dinner at May and Coulson's.
> 
> Also, Pietro is an adorable little shit. 
> 
> Next chapter will be the dinner!

“What’s up with you?”

 

Wanda fought the urge to sigh as she trudged mindlessly down the stone steps of Tesseract, Pietro easily keeping pace beside her. “Nothing.” 

 

She more felt rather than saw Pietro roll his eyes at that, a small scoff escaping him. “Liar.” 

 

She didn’t bother trying to tell him differently as they paused to look both ways before breaking into a lazy jog across the quiet street (the crosswalk was at least 50 meters down, and she didn’t quite see the point in extending their route any longer under the guise of 'safety’ to cross a road pretty much no one ever used).

 

Her twin didn’t press the issue, though, even as she could practically feel his curiosity and concern—for that, she was grateful. They just continued on, striding perfectly in sync as Tesseract’s buildings faded further into the background, draped in comfortable silence that never failed to provide a kind of serenity Wanda had come to value above most everything else spanning her short time on Earth.

 

(If the snake people had taught her anything besides the finer points of inhumane cruelty, it was that occasions of silence beside the person who means everything to you was something more valuable than words could possibly say.

 

Often she'd found herself too weak to even whisper to her brother in the cage next to hers… especially as the experiments progressed, and their bodies were put under such incapacitating mental and physical strain that even daring to twitch a muscle would bring about unimaginable agony, their only form of communication dwindled to the motionless silence shared between them—which, many would say is no form of communication at all.

 

Wanda disagrees. 

 

She’s no poet, and she’s sure her life philosophy at the age of 17 is a great deal more lacking in rational intelligence than she’d like to believe; but regardless, she thinks humans might search too intently for trivial labels of nameless feelings, for the delusion of knowledge in the hopelessly enigmatic anomaly of life, for a kind of fundamental meaning where such meaning is entirely obsolete. 

 

She doesn’t know much about anything, and maybe she’s way off base on the whole ‘life philosophy’ thing… But she thinks sometimes she’s better off believing it’s impossible to find words in any language that can illustrate the propensity of human emotion with any sort of accuracy—she thinks there’s something fucking _magical_ and utterly brilliant about accepting that some things don’t mean a goddamned thing, that the state of not knowing something doesn’t have to be inherently terrifying, because all too often it can feel as if it’s just the opposite.

 

All too often—at least, to Wanda—it can feel exhilarating; it feels like finally coming up for air when she was terrified she might drown. It's like… like… God _Dammit_ , she can’t explain; it just _is_. 

 

Whatever. 

 

The point she’s trying to make here is: she loves her brother. More than anything, and it’s moments like those in which that devotion felt as if it might burst from beneath her ribcage—and heaven knows she wouldn’t do a thing to fight it, not when it almost _hurts_ for her to keep it within.

 

In her more cynical years, she used to think love was painful and pointless: weakness.

 

She’s older now, and she’s decided that she doesn’t fucking _care_ what anyone says, much less her overly-jaded teenaged self of years past—she loves Pietro with everything she has, and yes, sometimes it feels as if that utter devotion might just rip her battered heart to shreds; sometimes it just _hurts_ above all else. But other times it doesn’t hurt quite so badly, and she finds herself thinking that maybe the warmth fluttering in her ribcage could just be the sort of unbridled happiness she’d always wished for.

 

And maybe it makes her foolish, and maybe it makes her weak, but she’ll never let go of that achingly enduring love, that everlasting sense of belonging that's made its home deep in her chest and seldom leaves, because truthfully, she doesn’t quite know how she’d manage to live without it.

 

She’s not sure she wants to know, either.

 

So she’ll keep loving until her bones turn to dust and not a single trace of her remains on Earth, because she doesn’t understand the fucking _point_ if she doesn’t.

 

She doesn’t care if it's stupid; it still _matters_ —or, at least, it does to her, and she’d like to think that maybe that’s enough.)

 

She waited until minutes later, when they were walking along the relatively desolate road that would eventually lead them to the trailer park, before finally saying quietly: “It’s Natasha.”

 

Pietro didn’t respond for a brief second, allowing Wanda’s admission to lie stagnant in the quiet between them. 

 

“Wait,” he said then. “I thought you were with her last night.” He looked worried, his hazel eyes burning into hers, brows stitched together to form a crease on his forehead as they walked side by side—really, his never-ending concern for her safety only served to make Wanda love him all the more, if such a thing was even possible.

 

“I was.” 

 

“But didn’t you guys like… " Her twin trailed off, a look of vague discomfort beginning to surface upon his angular features. 

 

Wanda raised an inquisitive brow. 

 

He rolled his eyes, then ducked his head in embarrassment, mumbling, “You know.” 

 

Wanda fought to keep from smiling as she deliberately widened her gaze and tilted her head, feigning innocence as Pietro’s eyes snapped up to meet hers. “Do I?” she asked, cutely batting her eyelids for maximum effect. 

 

“You know what I’m talking about,” Pietro huffed, rolling his eyes again as Wanda’s faux confusion persisted—then, after a moment’s hesitation (and a long defeated sigh), he began making vague gestures with his hands in an attempt to indicate what he meant (‘lesbian sex' being the phrase he was deliberately refusing to verbalize), which devolved rather quickly into something looking vaguely like a two-player game of Rock Paper Scissors, where either hand made aggressive scissoring motions as they thrashed violently against one another, his face screwed up in such adorable concentration and Oh my _God_ —Wanda couldn’t stop herself from abruptly bursting into laughter, practically wheezing with delight even as Pietro’s cheeks flushed a rosy pink and he instantly dropped his hands back to his sides.

 

Pietro folded his arms against his chest with a pout, his blush steadily deepening as Wanda heaved desperately for air, still convulsing with full-bodied laughter that subsequently caused her previously steadfast gait to decline into an inelegant stumble, one that wholly lacked in any sort of rhythm and had the added disadvantage of making balance exceedingly difficult to maintain. 

 

“You did that on purpose,” he accused petulantly as she lurched with audible laughter, fixing her with a frown before pointedly turning his gaze ahead to the tiny boxy-shaped accumulation of trailer units (theirs among them) appearing in the distance, evidently refusing to engage any further. 

 

It took another minute or two for Wanda’s snickering to finally taper off, her twin’s flushed expression still stubbornly wrought with indignation, the boy staring intently forward as her heaving lungs took their sweet time to re-gain a steady breathing tempo—by then, they could clearly see their grimy and continually-greying trailer (it had previously been a sloppily-painted eggshell white) where it sat not more than 50 or so meters away amidst various near-identical vehicular units on the very outskirts of the grounds, its trademark lavender stripe on the side just barely visible beneath the substantial layer of accumulated dirt coating their temporary home in the blazing afternoon sunlight.

 

“It was funny,” Wanda insisted as they continued walking, her voice strained from laughter. 

 

“Piss off,” Pietro grumbled, then purposefully picked up his pace, leaving a widely grinning Wanda trailing a few steps behind.

 

(It’d been a long time since her younger years in Sokovia that she’d laughed like that, even with Pietro—and although things were going pretty poorly with Natasha at the moment, she wasn’t delusional enough to even try denying that it likely had everything to do with the gorgeous redhead’s sudden emergence into Wanda’s life.

 

Even on a day like today, which was to be their last of living in Michelle’s trailer park before they were promptly evicted later that night, she was laughing like nothing else mattered, because she’d woken that morning to an adorably disheveled Natasha, then had worn the other girl’s vanilla-scented clothes all throughout the day, and on top of that, they’d kissed, _again_ … so really, she’s rather hard pressed to find a good reason not to smile. 

 

She guessed it made sense that things didn’t stay perfect for long, though, because in her experience, they never really did—at least, not for her, and not for Pietro, either.

 

She suspected that Natasha’s experience with happiness in all its bitter transience was much the same. 

 

Still, from the way Natasha had been acting, Wanda surmised that the other girl's panic had little to do with a real unsolvable _problem_ between the two of them—as far as she could tell, there was no “deal-breaker” to be discovered yet, especially not when things with Natasha were still so new. 

 

No, as far as she could tell, it had nothing to do with Wanda, and everything to do with something—or some _one_ —else.

 

Especially, she remembers, the look on Natasha's face: scared, guilty, pleading—which, considering Natasha had only ever mimicked that thoroughly distraught expression when she’d thought Wanda was angry with her for not wanting to have sex while the other girl was quite literally on the verge of tears, most likely meant Natasha was afraid she’d done something wrong, and was expecting to be punished for it.

 

What’s more, the thing she’d done “wrong” probably wasn’t even worth being upset over; it was far more likely that it was something rather inconsequential that Natasha had had no chance of being able to control, and it broke Wanda’s heart that Natasha was afraid of her for that.

 

Wanda would cut off her own hand before she’d ever reach for Natasha with a harmful intent, even as she knows with heartbreaking certainty that people in the girl's past had been all too happy to abuse her for the most trivial of infractions—so she’ll never blame Natasha for being terrified that simply existing might cause Wanda to react just as poorly as the rest of them, even though it hurts for her to think about; instead, she'll just hold out hope that one day Natasha might realize that she doesn’t have to be, however long that may take.

 

And in the meantime, she’d do everything she could to expedite that process, she decided, because Natasha deserved all that and a hell of a lot more.)

 

Moments later, Wanda was shutting the trailer door carefully behind her, withholding a sigh as she was met with the hot stuffy air of the dim and rather barren interior—Pietro had already zipped down the cramped hallway and into their room to change, though not before blazing a crackling neon-blue trail up the wall and across the ceiling which had earned an exasperated but affectionate grin from his sister in response.

 

Furrowing her brow slightly, she concentrated then on unlacing her ( _Natasha’s_ , she reminded herself) high-top Converse with translucent swirls of scarlet energy all while remaining steadily upright, her features relaxing moments later when her endeavor proved successful, laces comfortably loose on both shoes as she moved to slip them off her sock-clad feet with delightful ease.

 

Dropping her bag carefully to the carpeted floor, she squinted to eye the crooked and dusty clock in their kitchen, only vaguely registering the swift whooshing sounds of Pietro’s movements just a few paces away. _3:45_. 

 

“Hey, Pietro,” she called, her raised voice filling the small trailer—a beat later, her twin's figure (streaked with fading blue) appeared just outside the doorway of their shared room, the boy wearing his favorite ratty teal-green track-and-field T-shirt and long comfy black running shorts, his brows raised in a silent question. “Are you packed?” 

 

He hummed for a moment, his eyes drifting from Wanda’s as he thought about it. “Mostly,” he replied decisively after a brief second, hazel eyes returning to meet blue. “Plus, it’s not like we have many things to pack,” he stated, shrugging his shoulders. “Why?” 

 

“Mr. Coulson invited us to dinner.”

 

“Ah,” Pietro mused, his eyes brightening with excitement. “I forgot. Will Clint be there?”

 

“I dunno. Want me to ask Daisy?” 

 

Pietro nodded eagerly, looking remarkably like an overly excited puppy— _Maybe a Golden Retriever_ , she thought idly. 

 

“Okay,” Wanda agreed easily. “Do you have the phone?”

 

“Yes…?”

 

“Is that a question?” 

 

“Uhhhh—” 

 

She rolled her eyes as her twin promptly cut himself off to disappear in a dazzling flash of neon blue, whizzing noises filtering into the miniature kitchen space from the faint but fluorescent glow of the hallway as the scattered boy searched hastily for their shared phone.

 

“Pietro, I swear to God,” Wanda announced after counting to 10 in her head, a clear warning in her tone even as the whooshing noises persisted, “if you lost the phone I will actually blast you so _fucking_ hard y—"

 

_Whoosh!_

 

She was quickly interrupted by the abrupt appearance of her twin, who was now standing right in front of her, the gust of wind he’d managed to generate actually feeling rather refreshing amidst the stifling humidity in the trailer (whereas usually it just annoyed her), a triumphant smirk on his features as he dangled the phone playfully in the air with a loose grip. 

 

“You were saying?” he inquired smugly, the self-satisfied grin on his face growing exponentially wider even as Wanda fixed him with a scowl.

 

(He’d always been a good 5 inches taller than she was, a fact that certainly wasn’t helping with the rather strong urge she was feeling right then to blast him into space.)

 

“Just give it here,” she grumbled, extending her expectant hand between them. 

 

She was just about ready to slap her twin when Pietro wiggled his brows jovially in response, continuing to tauntingly wave the sleek black phone just inches from her nose as she glared.

 

Attempting to keep her features still (she didn’t want him to suspect what she was doing and zip away), she began focusing on a spell in her mind, consciously keeping crimson heat from flashing in her eyes as she fixated on the glowing energy beneath her skin—a moment later, tendrils of red were curling themselves around the phone in her brother’s hand, encasing it in an iron grip even as Pietro pulled helplessly at the device, having only just realized what was happening; in a matter of seconds Wanda’s magic had plucked the phone from Pietro’s stubborn grip ( _Like stealing candy from a baby_ , she thought gleefully—then she wondered where the Americans had come up with such a strange and somewhat cruel saying, because why on _Earth_ would you steal candy from a _baby_ ?), watching with amusement as the boy stumbled this way and that in a mirage of blue to right himself from falling. 

 

Meanwhile, the phone was left floating above Wanda’s upwards-facing palm in a misty cloud of red—she didn’t want to take any chances if Pietro tried to snatch it back from her.

 

“Rude,” the boy asserted with a pout even as his gaze remained distractedly fixed upon the almost hypnotic bobbing of the airborne phone just inches over his sister's fingertips.

 

Wanda just smirked, then tilted her head slightly as she concentrated again, this time on delivering a phantom flick to her twin’s forehead—her little recompense for all the trouble he’d caused her. 

 

“ _Ow!_ ” came Pietro’s indignant exclamation just a breath later that indicated her magic had hit its mark, one hand darting up to rub at his forehead, his eyes narrowing irritably at her. “No fair,” he whined. 

 

“Oh, honey,” Wanda said with a teasing chuckle as she allowed the mist around the floating phone to dissipate, the device landing promptly in her open palm with a satisfying _slap!_ —then she looked at her twin with a deliberately condescending gaze, as if she were speaking to a 1st-grader. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that _life_ isn’t fair?” 

 

Pietro cocked a brow, the pout on his features fading. “Isn’t that from a movie?” 

 

“Shut up.”

 

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	21. 12 minutes (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First part of dinner at Mr. Coulson's house! (ish)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just saw Endgame this past weekend :(
> 
> But writing this helps...
> 
> As always, would love any feedback!

“Pietro, c’mon! Mr. Coulson’s house is a 40 minute walk!” she called out with clear exasperation, having flashbacks to the first day of school as she stood waiting impatiently in the kitchen, which wasn’t all that helpful, especially considering that that particular occasion had resulted in the two of them being a solid hour late to Tesseract that morning, thereby missing first period altogether.

 

“Coming!” came his muffled shout from their room, followed quickly by a series of whooshing noises accompanied by short flashes of aqua light briefly illuminating the undersized hallway. 

 

Wanda just sighed, shooting the tilted clock a brief glance (it read 5:23) before looking down at the outfit she’d chosen for the night: a loose and somewhat low-cut black dress that stopped at mid-thigh along with Natasha’s high-top Converse sneakers and a cherry-red faux leather jacket to complete the entire look. She’d changed it at least five different times in the past hour; the prospect of seeing Natasha again, especially after their earlier encounter, was making her nervous—far more nervous than she could remember being in a very long time. 

 

She’d done her hair, too (after agonizing for a straight hour over whether Natasha preferred it up or down), in loose tumbling waves that reached easily past her shoulders, along with the slightest hint of mascara on long dark lashes and a light tinted blush on rosy pink cheeks. She kept telling herself that it didn’t matter if Natasha thought she looked pretty, that she was doing this for herself, that the sheer amount of effort she was putting into all of this had nothing to do with the way she felt for the absolutely singular redheaded girl… but she’d never been all that good at lying to herself, and she really hadn’t gotten any better at it in the past couple of years, so it seemed rather counterintuitive to even bother trying. 

 

No, she knew exactly where this vanity was coming from—what’s more, she didn’t really see the point of trying to stop it, because despite everything she _cared_ , Goddammit, and she knew it’d probably hurt a hell of a lot worse to act as if she didn’t. 

 

Luckily, though, she was pulled near instantly from her thoughts by the sudden appearance of her twin zooming to her side with an audible _whoosh!_

 

“Ready!” he announced proudly, dressed in dark blue jeans and a grey dri-fit long-sleeved shirt with his favorite pair of black running shoes laced securely on his feet, hazel irises positively dancing with excitement.

 

Wanda just raised a single brow, then brought a dainty hand up to pat gently at the unruly platinum hair atop his head, which was sticking out wildly every which way even despite her deliberate attempts to flatten it. “Would it kill you to do your hair?”

 

Pietro rolled his eyes, good-naturedly batting her hands away with a scoff. “It’s not like _I_ have a hot girl to impress.”

 

“Shut up,” Wanda grumbled as her hands fell to her sides, feeling her cheeks flush despite herself.

 

“Am I wrong?” he asked smugly, brows wiggling goofily as he leered intentionally closer. 

 

She promptly shoved him in lieu of a verbal response, fighting the smile twitching at her lips when he just laughed. 

 

“But seriously,” he added, the playful grin fading from his features as he gazed affectionately down at his sister. “You look good. She’s not gonna know what hit her.”

 

A prickle of warmth sparked through Wanda’s chest at that, and sooner than she could blink there were tears burning in her eyes. 

 

(God, she didn’t know why she was being so emotional—maybe the past few weeks were finally starting to catch up with her.)

 

“Thanks,” she mumbled back, trying hard to keep her voice from trembling as her gaze darted back up to meet her twin's. “Um,” she coughed, blinking erratically to dispel the tears. “It’s cold outside. You should wear a jacket.”

 

Pietro let out an exasperated huff, again rolling his eyes dramatically, though his lips were still upturned at the edges. 

 

“Fine,” he grumbled, before disappearing in a split second, leaving only faint wisps of blue in his wake along with an obnoxious gust of wind. 

 

A brief moment later he was back in a nearly blinding flash of sapphire (and yet another strong gust of cool air that blew her hair back on either side, making her feel like every perpetually smiling woman on those obnoxious American hair commercials), shrugging on his favorite matte-black microfiber rain jacket with inverted grey Chevron arrow insignias lined neatly down either sleeve. 

 

“Thank you,” she said in a sing-song voice. 

 

“Let’s go.”

 

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“So, this is it?"

 

Wanda sighed, her breath visible in the cool night air like a lungful of smoke as she eyed the modest two-story house built of wood and brick before them with scarcely concealed hesitancy. “Yep.”

 

Pietro nodded. “It’s nice."

 

“Mmhm,” she hummed dazedly in agreement, feeling the weight of her twin's worried stare upon her even as she kept her focus steadily forward.

 

And Pietro was right, she decided—it _was_ a nice house: there was a neat front yard sprinkled with various multicolored potted plants, a burgundy-red-painted front door, conventional white shutters in every large square window pane… yeah, it was the very picture of your stereotypical suburban Americana; Wanda wouldn’t be surprised if the Coulson family had a dog, too. Maybe a Labrador. 

 

Pietro softly nudging her brought her quickly out of her observations, her twin’s brows furrowed in concern. 

 

“Nervous?” he asked.

 

She bit her lip. “Yeah.”

 

“It’ll be fine,” he insisted, the visible clouds of his breath mingling with hers in the night air. “Maybe you guys can talk, you know? Sort things out.”

 

Wanda sighed. “Yeah,” she mumbled, though she knew her words didn’t sound all that convincing. “Maybe.”

 

Pietro curled an arm around her narrow shoulders then, pulling her easily into his chest—she took a shaky breath before allowing her eyes to flutter shut, willfully allowing the steady beat of her brother’s heart thumping against her ear to soothe the powerful anxiety gathered deep in her gut. 

 

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay—you know that, right?” he whispered soothingly, running a steady hand up and down his sister’s jacket-clad back as she breathed deeply into the sewn fabric of his shirt.

 

Wanda nodded against his chest, clutching shakily at fistfuls of his nylon jumper, trying desperately to control her inhales even as she felt incredibly stupid for panicking in the first place. “I know,” she said quietly. “I know.”

 

She felt him nod above her, then lean to place a long warm kiss on her forehead in the chilly air of the night, which she leaned instinctively into as small waves of comfort washed over her.

 

“Let’s go inside, yeah?” he mumbled, placing another kiss at the crown of her head as he let his arms relax incrementally on either side of her willowy form. 

 

“Yeah,” she paused for a second, staring back at the two-story house twinkling in the night. “Love you.”

 

“Love you too, sis.”

 

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“Knock,” Pietro urged her, jabbing his head subtly towards the red-painted wooden door, the two of them standing on the front stoop of Mr. Coulson’s home in the cool night air.

 

“Why me?”

 

“Just knock.”

 

Wanda crossed her arms stubbornly. “ _You_ do it.”

 

“Why not you?”

 

“Why not _you_?"

 

“You know, I’m 12—"

 

“—minutes older than me, I know,” she cut him off with a roll of her eyes.

 

“Mmhm,” he hummed smugly, a wide grin on his face. “Therefore, you have to do what I say.”

 

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Just knock on the damn door, Pietro.”

 

“But I’m older!”

 

“By 12 minutes!” Wanda blurted out pointedly, gesturing wildly in the air with one hand. 

 

“So? It still counts,” he said with a pout. “Knock.”

 

“You do it.”

 

“No, _you_ do i—“

 

At that exact moment the door swung abruptly open, successfully cutting off Pietro’s objection, the words dying instantly on the boy’s tongue as both wide-eyed twins whirled to face none other than a beaming Mr. Coulson standing casually in the doorway dressed in long black slacks and a white dress shirt without a tie, the top two buttons undone. 

 

“Sorry,” the man began, an apologetic but undoubtedly amused expression on his kind face. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but I also wasn’t quite sure how long the two of you were gonna go on for.”

 

“Uh—I—We—" Pietro sputtered, a bright red flush beginning to spread across his angular cheekbones. 

 

Mr. Coulson’s brows rose. 

 

“We’re sorry, Mr. Coulson,” Wanda amended after a moment, her gaze resolutely downcast under the man’s inquisitive gaze.

 

He just chuckled, laughter sparkling in his soft brown eyes. “Don’t apologize; I thought it was quite funny,” he paused, the smile still wide and inviting on his aged features. “Come on in, you guys, we’re glad you made it.” 

 

_This should be interesting_ , Wanda thought dryly to herself before nodding at Mr. Coulson with what she hoped to be a somewhat appeasing smile and did her best not to stumble as she followed Pietro through the dimly lit doorway. 

 

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An energetic Daisy was ambling gracelessly down the stairs as they entered into a decently sized space (maybe 10’x10’) with dim yellowy lighting and cream-colored walls, the girl's dark brown eyes noticeably brightening when she caught sight of the twins. She was wearing her classic grunge-esque look: tight ripped black jeans, a flowing violet-and-dark-blue plaid button down, and worn matte-black combat boots with black laces. Loose waves of coffee-brown hair were rested haphazardly over either shoulder, her lashes dark with liberal coats of mascara that only served to make soft chestnut irises pop out all the more against smooth tanned skin.

 

The whole ensemble was rather intimidating, if Wanda was being honest.

 

“Hey, guys!” she called, hopping down excitedly off the last step and on the tile flooring of the room with a loud noise as her boots hit the ground—at that, she winced, then turned to yell “Sorry Mom!” up the stairs as something of an afterthought. 

 

There was no response, but Wanda wasn’t sure that she’d really been expecting one in the first place.

 

“Hi, Daisy,” Wanda shyly addressed the lively girl from her spot standing awkwardly next to a pleasantly-smiling Mr. Coulson in the small foyer. 

 

Pietro waved awkwardly beside her and gave a mumbled greeting before quickly shoving both hands into his pockets, the tips of his ears blushing pink. 

 

Daisy’s grin just widened, the girl seemingly unperturbed by both twins' hesitant responses. “C’mon,” she chirped breezily, practically gliding past them and beckoning nonchalantly for them to follow—which they did, albeit with a bit more reluctance, Wanda taking the lead so Pietro could trail timidly behind as the three made their way through the well-kempt interior, leaving Mr. Coulson to stroll happily off in another direction (maybe to prepare dinner?).

 

Seconds later, they were clambering down two tiled steps and into a very nice and home-y living room with sleek hardwood flooring and tidy plush furniture—almost immediately, Daisy plopped herself unceremoniously down onto one of two lavish beige couches on either side of the well-lit room (there was an antiquated glass chandelier with faux candles hanging delicately from the ceiling) and gesturing easily for Pietro and Wanda to do the same across from her. 

 

The twins obeyed in almost perfect sync, the acute discomfort they felt quite apparent in either of their stilted movements as they sank side-by-side into the middle cushion of the massive sofa—Daisy, meanwhile, wiggled hastily around for a moment before whipping out a sleek rose-gold phone from her back pocket (Wanda felt a thrill of secondhand anxiety for the girl when she saw that Daisy had neglected to put a protective case on her phone) and began staring intently at the screen with a furrowed brow, occasionally typing something onto the touch screen with deft fingers as her brows furrowed. 

 

There was a brief silence in which Daisy continued to type at an almost inhuman pace, one hand occasionally coming to fiddle with the thin golden bracelet around her right wrist as she focused intently on the device—both twins just sat rather stiffly on the couch while the girl focused, their bodies pressed firmly against one other’s from knee to hip as they waited apprehensively for Daisy to finish with her earnest tapping. 

 

(Honestly, a part of Wanda was rather grateful for Daisy’s strayed focus at the particular moment; it saved her from engaging in small talk and exchanging awkward pleasantries and inevitably saying something _incredibly_ stupid to make Daisy regret befriending them to begin with.

 

Yeah, this was fine, Wanda decided—if not the tiniest bit awkward.)

 

Eventually, though (and all too soon, in Wanda’s opinion), Daisy was letting out an almost inaudible sigh at her phone as she hastily clicked a button on its side to set the device to sleep, then quickly dropping it face-down on the vacant cushion beside her, her gaze snapping up to address the uneasy twins sitting across from her with a sincere apology in her almond-shaped brown eyes. 

 

(It was interesting for Wanda to see Daisy adopt that more solemn demeanor so quickly, especially since the Asian girl—at least, as far as Wanda could tell—seemed to most always exist in a state of endless charisma.

 

It only served to make Wanda all the more curious about Daisy’s life, about why she kept the last name ‘Johnson’ while both her parents had different last names, about her hobbies and interests, about how a girl who appeared to be intimately familiar with pain could still laugh and joke almost constantly like she didn’t know the meaning of the term.)

 

“Sorry, you guys,” the girl amended genuinely, her brows stitched together with sincerity (and something that looked a lot like… concern? Wanda couldn’t be sure). “I usually hate it when people ignore me to check their social media,” she paused then as her lips quirked almost imperceptibly, then began to tap her combat-boot-clad heel agitatedly against the hardwood. “But have you guys heard from Clint or Tasha?”

 

A cold sort of dread immediately trickled its way into Wanda’s ribcage at the question, and she turned her head hastily to eye the round and refined clock mounted on the adjacent wall: _6:16_. 

 

_Shit_. 

 

“Uh, no,” Wanda managed to choke out, trying desperately to keep the fear from seeping into her tone. “Are they okay?”

 

At that, Daisy smirked, crossing one leg comfortably over the other where she sat sprawled on the luxurious couch ( _Seriously_ , Wanda thought, _these are probably the most comfortable things I’ve ever been on in my life_ ). 

 

“I’m sure your girlfriend’s just fine,” she replied, her playful gaze boring into Wanda’s—the Sokovian girl abruptly felt her muscles tense and a light blush begin to tint her cheeks in response. “Clint probably left the oven running _again_ and set his kitchen on fire.” 

 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Wanda mumbled, even as Pietro promptly leaned forward next to her, clearly intrigued by Daisy’s words. 

 

“‘Again’?” he questioned. 

 

“Yes, again,” Daisy absentmindedly answered Pietro’s inquiry, her eyes still focused intently on Wanda. “But you wish she was, right?” She wiggled her brows expectantly even as Wanda felt her flushed cheeks burn hotter still. 

 

“I—I mean—Well—You—,” she stammered, heat positively radiating from her face as Daisy’s impeccably-done brows rose steadily with every attempted word. “It’s just—I—Not that—"

 

“Yep,” Pietro interjected with a smirk, evidently having decided to take it upon himself to reply for his suddenly incoherent twin. “She’s crushing big time,” he gleefully informed the girl, his hazel eyes dancing with humor while Wanda fought to gather her wits about her. “You should’ve _seen_ her the first time they met, like, I swear to _God_ her eyes were basically _super-glued_ to Natasha’s ass—“

 

“I’m gonna kill you,” the Sokovian girl mumbled, a hand coming up to massage exhaustedly at her forehead.

 

“Oh, c’mon, you _know_ you were giving her serious bedroom eyes—"

 

“Pietro,” Wanda cut him off with a mortified glare even as Daisy’s infectious laughter filled the room.

 

“Seriously, I thought— _Ow!_ “ 

 

He interrupted himself this time with a yelped complaint when Wanda pinched him _hard_ on the shoulder through the dexterous fabric of his shirt, her twin quickly whipping his gaze around to fix her with a petulant pout. 

 

Wanda just rolled her eyes and pointedly returned her attention back to the exposed skin of her knees, trying to will the flush in her cheeks to abate.

 

Daisy, as all this was going on, remained rather unhelpful to Wanda’s cause, the girl gasping for air across from them and letting out the occasional snort as she fought to keep her laughter somewhat contained where she sat angled crookedly against the cushions.

 

“You know,” Pietro said in an indignant tone after Daisy’s laughter had died down (at least, to a certain degree), “it’s not _my_ fault you have a crush so big it can easily be seen from space without the use of a telescope—“

 

Wanda was winding up to deliver a well-placed kick to her twin’s unsuspecting calf when they were promptly interrupted: “Wanda has a crush?” a boy’s amused voice— _Clint’s_ , she realized when she turned to look— came from the doorway, Natasha standing just beside him, which, _Wow_.

 

“A _big_ crush,” Pietro answered jovially, though his comment, which would’ve typically infuriated Wanda, fell on deaf ears as the brunette girl gawked helplessly at the subject of her aforementioned crush.

 

She vaguely registered Daisy jumping up excitedly from the sofa and saying, “You made it!” with a large smile, but Wanda really couldn’t have cared less, not when Natasha was _there_ with a small amused smirk on her regal features, those green eyes completely unreadable as they locked onto the blue of Wanda’s.

 

Clint looked fairly normal, she noted distractedly (her attention was still almost entirely focused towards Natasha), the boy dressed rather untidily in knee-length black Nike running shorts and a long-sleeved track-and-field shirt with well-worn black low-top Converse laced on his feet. (He and Pietro were _remarkably_ similar.) 

 

But Natasha… _Woah_. She wasn’t wearing her usual style of clothing—in fact, they didn’t even really look to be hers: black Adidas sweatpants with thin white stripes on either side that hung low on her hips, a thin strip of gloriously bare alabaster skin exposed between the waistband of her pants and the hem of an under-sized cotton white T-shirt that read ‘8th Grade Graduation’ on its chest with bold fluorescent blue lettering, along with old-school checkered Vans that looked to be about three sizes too big for her dainty feet. Yeah—definitely not Natasha’s usual look.

 

Maybe they were Clint’s, Wanda hypothesized for a minute, then found herself momentarily flooded with confusion as a twinge of unpleasantness curled in her stomach at the thought of Natasha wearing Clint’s clothes—though, she was rather unsure as to what she should call the distasteful sensation she felt trickling gradually throughout her body, having never quite experienced anything like it before (—at least, certainly not to _that_ degree). 

 

It hit her quite suddenly then, after a second or two of floundering, exactly what it was that she was feeling: _jealousy_ … Which was positively absurd, because Natasha wasn’t hers and didn’t owe Wanda a _goddamned_ thing, not to mention that Clint was the girl’s best friend so of _course_ it made sense for her to borrow his clothes whenever she damn well pleased—but the unpalatable feeling was there just the same, refusing to be ignored like the acrid taste of something decidedly sour on Wanda’s tongue. 

 

It took her a long moment to really wrap her head around the irrational jealousy flaring deep in her gut, but eventually she was tumbling back down to reality, nerves gripping her as she took in the four sets of eyes trained intently upon her, as if all waiting expectantly for a response to a question. 

 

“Um—I,” she sputtered, coughing uncomfortably as she recovered with a self-deprecating shake of her head. “Um—Sorry, I zoned out… What?” 

 

She saw Daisy’s shit-eating grin grow wider in her periphery, but her attention was quickly drawn by a suddenly blushing Natasha standing just before the steps next to Clint as everyone’s gaze swiveled to focus on her—after a moment or two, the redheaded girl parted her full lips to speak in a shy voice, “I just—I said you looked beautiful tonight, Wanda.” 

 

_Holy shit_.

 

“I—You—" she cut herself off when Pietro nudged her arm insistently where she sat still frozen on the plush couch. She swallowed thickly, feeling utterly _lost_ in the best possible way as she gazed into Natasha’s forest-green eyes and racked her brain desperately for an even vaguely intelligible response. “Thank you,” she managed in a strangled but polite tone, relief sparking in her chest when her words came out sounding at least somewhat coherent. “You look amazing, too.” 

 

At that, Natasha chuckled, ducking her head cutely as the flush on her high cheekbones deepened—Wanda didn’t even _bother_ trying to tamp down on the swell of affection she felt for the other girl at the sight, because she knew damn well she'd lose that battle every single time. 

 

“Well, I’m glad _you_ think so,” Natasha said wryly. “These are Clint’s.” She gestured down at her outfit with a meek smile.

 

Wanda nodded as best as she could, dutifully ignoring the newly-defined jealousy growing painfully in her gut. “I figured.”

 

Natasha opened her mouth as if to respond, and Wanda quirked a brow curiously as her interest was instantly peaked, but the girl was swiftly cut off by Clint ( _Dammit, Clint!_ ) addressing Daisy with a sincere, “Sorry we’re so late, Johnson.” 

 

Natasha’s mouth snapped shut, and the momentary connection was broken as she also turned to offer a quick apology to Daisy.

 

The Asian girl just shrugged, extending a clenched fist between them which Clint quickly bumped with his own. “Just tell me all the gory details later, ‘kay?” 

 

At that, Natasha and Clint both visibly flinched, an almost haunted look crossing Clint’s boyish features for a long moment (Natasha was much quicker to school her alarmed expression into something neutral), before he was quickly clearing his throat and nodding his head up and down rapidly— _too_ rapidly, Wanda observed with growing concern. 

 

Luckily for him, Natasha was quick to throw him a lifeline: “For sure,” she reassured Daisy with an easy grin as a flustered Clint bit his bottom lip anxiously—though Daisy had begun eyeing them both with an unreadable look on her tanned features, clearly put off by their erratic behavior.

 

A beat passed in silence. 

 

“Hey, guys?” Pietro said to break the rather uncomfortable quiet, his brows raised. “Can we eat now? I’m really hungry.” 

 

(God, Wanda loved her brother. So much. 

 

She knew he’d seen it, too—the discomfort, the fear... all indicators that Clint and Natasha were dealing with some serious shit at the moment, but bless him, he was quick to successfully lighten the mood, anything to make everyone feel comfortable and at ease.)

 

At that, Clint’s blue eyes visibly brightened, the conflicted look fading easily from his charming features in favor of an eager grin. “Yes!” he exclaimed rather loudly, pumping his fist in the air with untapped enthusiasm. "What he said.” 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Daisy relented, though suspicion still glinted sparingly in her gaze. “Dad made taquitos and fish tacos.” With that, she turned on her heel to lead them all through another doorway (not the same one in which they’d entered) even further into the spacious but cozy house, Clint already having crossed the room to whisper excitedly with Pietro about Mexican food and fish tacos and how much food they were both going to eat, heads bowed together in spirited conversation as the pair hastily ambled after Daisy.

 

Wanda fought the urge to roll her eyes at Pietro’s (and Clint’s, it seemed) shared eating obsession even as her stomach grumbled almost imperceptibly—before following the two boys through the doorway, thought, she cautiously stopped herself to extend a single hand, indicating that Natasha should go before her. (And no, it certainly wasn’t an added bonus or anything that the courteous gesture gave her another opportunity to ogle Natasha’s _perfect_ behind in those well-fitted pants—no, she would never.)

 

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	22. "stop screaming, clint" (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's just trying to get them to Coulson's house on time. 
> 
> Predictably, it doesn't go all that well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think I'm gonna have next chapter be the actual dinner scene in its entirety... I just definitely wanted to write both perspectives leading up to it 
> 
> Hope you enjoy:)

Getting out of Clint’s house was quite the production.

 

(Natasha’s not quite sure why she'd even bothered expecting anything different.)

 

Showering only took about 7 minutes—Clint came out with wild eyes and a dripping-wet mop of hair, while Natasha had spared herself the trouble of washing hers, even with the small amount of blood staining her rose-red strands (she was hoping it’d be fairly unnoticeable amongst the reddish hues). 

 

Then, after a quick glance at the clock (6:13), she quickly threw on a pair of Clint’s old Adidas sweatpants (he hadn’t worn them since the 9th grade, so they fit her almost perfectly) and a white cotton tee from their 8th grade graduation party (it had the names of the whole grade listed on its back) that was small enough to fit Natasha like a snug crop-top.

 

Clint was throwing on shorts and his long-sleeved light-grey track-and-field tee beside her in his room, hopping desperately on one foot as he struggled with pulling on a single bright-green sock he’d found on the floor just minutes earlier. 

 

(It’d taken them years to grow their trust to that point, where they would strip themselves bare and get changed in the same room like it was nothing—but somewhere along the way, it’d become more or less routine.

 

Their trust in one another had grown slowly but surely into an unconditional kind of reliance, one that terrified the shit out of Natasha with every passing day even as she knew she’d never be strong enough to let it go.)

 

They were both dressed (admittedly somewhat haphazardly), and ready to race out the door (Natasha’s hand was _literally_ on the wooden handle) when she hastily gave the both of them a quick once-over to reassure that they both looked somewhat presentable, and _Shit_ —she caught sight of the bruise, red and irritated and clear as day, well on its way to forming a kind of purplish circular-shaped discoloration on Clint’s chiseled cheekbone. 

 

“Hold on,” she mumbled before dashing through the hallways (leaving a quizzical and still-dripping Clint in her wake), throwing herself recklessly around corners (briefly passing by an unconscious Barney sprawled across the kitchen table) before finally bursting through the doorway of Clint’s messily-kempt room, wide green eyes darting this way and that in a frenzied search for the bottle of drugstore concealer she was _sure_ she’d left in there just weeks ago.

 

(That was another thing the trust they shared lended itself to: sleepovers. Frequently. 

 

Frequently enough that Barney had been absolutely _convinced_ that they were dating, despite both of them telling him they most certainly weren't. 

 

They hadn’t done one in a couple weeks or so, not since Natasha had pulled out the cuffs and been pathetically unable to sleep without them chaining her wrist to the bed frame. 

 

But those nights were good. For the both of them, and she’ll admit it made her a tad on-edge that they hadn’t slept in the same bed for such a long time. 

 

Nightmares were common—though Natasha experienced them more frequently than Clint—and insomnia even more so, and she’d decided long ago that it was unspeakably better to have someone familiar and trustworthy at her side when she woke drenched in cold sweat and screaming for her long-dead father to make the horrible pain stop. 

 

Especially if it was Clint. 

 

It had its problems, though—on one particular occasion, she’d woken to a still-sleeping Clint with dull blue eyes eerily wide-open above her, his strong hands wrapped tightly around her throat, steadily squeezing the air from her lungs as she thrashed beneath him.

 

She was lucky they’d both been taking lessons from Mrs. May on self-defense since middle school, because even with spots dancing dangerously in her blurring vision and the inability to breathe, she managed to twist an arm just under the sweat-drenched armpit of his sleep shirt, successfully gaining enough leverage to jar him to the side and loosen his grip, then used his scant momentum to slide her torso out from beneath his hips, their positions suddenly switched in the night as she pressed an abdominal pressure-point to keep him pinned. 

 

He’d woken eventually, albeit after a couple well-placed slaps to the face from a heavily-panting Natasha who was still straddling his hips with her thighs—almost instantaneously, the boy began spouting endless apologies and asking at least a million times if she was alright and cursing himself viciously for being so _fucking_ damaged. 

 

Then he told her they should stop doing this—sleeping in the same bad, mumbling how it was too dangerous, how _he_ was dangerous. 

 

Natasha showed up on his doorstep the very next day after dinner with a pillow tucked securely under her arm and two mottled purple hand-shaped bruises around her neck, refusing to quit her unrelenting knocking until Clint let her in. 

 

After a long ten minutes he finally did, bursting instantly into tears at the sight of Natasha’s battered neck, urging her to go before he did anything else to harm her. 

 

She just scoffed, pushing him aside, then marched with purpose to Clint’s bedroom, lying down on the left side of the queen-sized bed and patting at the space next to her in a gesture for an open-mouthed Clint to join her. 

 

He didn’t, at first. 

 

But Natasha talked, and he talked back, and she didn’t move, and she wasn’t going to any time soon—they fell asleep side by side that night, arms brushing warmly with every deep inhale. 

 

She felt safe in Clint’s room—it held the kind of memories she’d never run away from, which, considering her life thus far, had always been in rather short supply.

 

She liked sleeping there.)

 

She let out a sigh of relief when she caught sight of the small glass bottle filled with tan liquid sitting on his old wooden nightstand, lunging forward to snatch it in a tight grip before turning on her heel to sprint back out to Clint. 

 

“What?” he asked, confusion written all across his features as she slowed her jog to a halt just before him, Converse sneakers screeching on the hardwood. 

 

She didn’t answer for a moment, just focused her attentions on unscrewing the small cosmetics bottle in her hands. “Where’d you get that bruise?”

 

Clint’s eyes widened incrementally at the question but she didn’t allow her expression to change when she looked back up, just reached forward to begin dabbing the light-beige solution on his left cheek as carefully as she could manage, using a gentle finger to blend it further into his tanned skin. 

 

He didn’t flinch as she poked and prodded the bruise. 

 

(She knew he wouldn’t—physical pain was something they’d both come to know very well over their short lifetimes.

 

It’d take something a hell of a lot worse to make either of them flinch.)

 

After a moment the panicked expression faded, replaced by a defeated look in his electric blue eyes while Natasha’s thumb swiped daintily around the steadily-fading mark. “Some Russian guys.” Natasha’s hand froze. “Said B owed them money.”

 

Natasha forced her hands to keep moving—applying one more coat of concealer to make the angry blot more or less invisible (at least, as best as she could manage). “Did you get any names?” 

 

“Oh, yeah,” Clint muttered, sarcasm dripping from his tone (his go-to mechanism when things were going to shit). “We actually went for coffee after they were done beating the hell out of—“

 

“Clint.” She sighed. 

 

His blue-eyed gaze met hers for a long moment, before a blush was staining his cheeks and he was ducking his head shyly. “‘M sorry, Tash,” he mumbled. "I didn’t mean it.”

 

She dropped her hand, observing her hasty work with clinical eyes before responding: “I know you didn’t, buddy.” Screwing the lid back onto the bottle, she threw it casually across the living room, lips twitching slightly when it bounced once on the leather couch before landing soundly in place between the cushions. “Ready to go?” 

 

Clint nodded, a hint of his easygoing demeanor returning as he gave her a lopsided grin. “Let’s do it.” 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

At least five different times on the way over to Daisy's, Natasha very nearly crashed the car in her haste to get there—and Clint screaming bloody murder in the passenger seat with every close call certainly didn’t help what was left of her scattered concentration.

 

Checking the time on the dash (6:15), she cursed quietly in Russian—they were still a good five minutes out (three if there were no pedestrians, buses, etc. to take into account, which literally never happened). “Hey Cl—“

 

“—AAAAAAAGGAAGGGGHHHHHHHH—“

 

(He screamed as she swung a tight turn at 39mph, barely registering the squeak of rubber on the blacktop gravel, and _God_ if it didn’t make her want to slap him.)

 

“Stop screaming, Clin—"

 

(Another screeching turn as she expertly yanked the steering wheel.)

 

“—OOOHHHH MY GOOOOOOOOOO—“

 

“ _Clint!_ ” she practically barked as they straightened out on a residential road, relief curling in her chest when he promptly snapped his mouth shut, bug-eyed gaze darting to meet hers.

 

“We’re gonna die,” he whimpered, his tone only half-joking. (Probably more like 25%… No, that’s too generous. 15? Whatever. Point is—the kid was terrified, and it was showing.)

 

She rolled her eyes, pointedly turning her gaze back to the road ahead (going 60mph in a 30mph zone required at least some degree of due diligence). “We’re not gonna die.”

 

(She uttered a curse as she swerved sharply to avoid a child’s tricycle lying in the middle of the lane, sending various personal affects flying noisily around the backseat.)

 

“—oh my GooOOOOOO—“

 

“Shut _up!_ ” she hissed, brow furrowed. “I’m trying to talk to you about something.”

 

“Oooh,” Clint practically cooed, immediately forgetting his earlier hysteria as he leaned closer to Natasha over the center console, brows wiggling obscenely. “Is it about Wanda?”

 

Natasha fought the urge to roll her eyes. “No.”

 

Clint pouted, leaning further back into his seat. “Shame.”

 

“Not everything’s about Wanda, Clint.” 

 

“And _that’s_ your problem!” he exclaimed. 

 

Natasha took another sharp turn (though to avoid any more screaming, she slowed to a semi-reasonable 31mph), eyes still focused on the road ahead in glow of her headlights. “Since when do I have a problem?”

 

She didn’t have to turn and see to know the disbelieving _“Really?”_ look he was currently sending her way. 

 

Natasha slowly applied the brakes as they finally neared Coulson’s home, purposefully making a rather halting stop just outside the house that made Clint jerk forward against his seatbelt then violently back into his seat with a loud squawk. 

 

“Asshole,” he mumbled as he bitterly eyed the smirk growing on her face. 

 

Her smirk grew wider. “Now, we’re going to talk about the thing that I was _trying_ to talk to you about earlier.” 

 

“I get distracted easily! It’s not _my_ fault I have Attention Defiance Diso—“

 

“Deficit.”

 

“Huh?”

 

She let out a small sigh, though she couldn’t muster any real annoyance in her tone. “It’s Attention _Deficit_ Disorder.” 

 

Clint’s brow furrowed. “That’s what I said.”

 

“It’s definitely not.”

 

“Yeah, it—”

 

“Oh my God,” Natasha interrupted with an exasperated sigh. “We’re not doing this right now. We need to come up with a story.”

 

Clint frowned slightly. “A story?”

 

“For… " she trailed off, gesturing a hand emphatically towards her own left cheek.

 

“Wh—" the boy cut himself off, his eyes lighting up with recognition. “Oh!” 

 

She nodded. “Yeah. Just in case I didn’t do a good enough job with the cover-up.”

 

“What if i just say you did it?”

 

Her gaze narrowed. “You want to tell them that I _punched_ you in the _face?_ “

 

Clint grinned proudly and nodded—then, seeing her almost murderous expression, his gleeful expression quickly faded, eyebrows stitching together in concern. “What, you don’t think that’s a good plan?”

 

“Oh my God,” she groaned, a hand coming up to rub at her temple. “ _Obviously_ I don’t think it’s a good—"

 

She was interrupted by the insistent buzzing of her phone in her lap, indicating (probably) another worried text from Daisy. 

 

_Shit_. 

 

“Oh, _no_ ,” Clint moaned dramatically, his eyes on the dashboard clock. It read 6:29. “We gotta go.”

 

“Fuck me,” Natasha cursed under her breath as they scrambled to exit the car and slam their doors behind them, breaking into a jog to cross the street and hurriedly climbing the steps of the two-story suburban home, Natasha clicking the lock button on her keys twice as an afterthought. 

 

“Just ask Wanda,” Clint supplied with a snicker, his breaths coming in slightly winded gasps as they stood on the front porch. “I’m sure she'd be happy to.” 

 

Natasha rapped the door three times with her knuckles, pointedly refusing to spare her best friend a single glance beside her. “Fuck you, Clint.” 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗


	23. "you could just hymen-ate" (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with May and Coulson...
> 
> There's a lot of Clint and Daisy being idiots, and Wanda and Natasha being deep in their feels. 
> 
> Also, Natasha loves Clint. A lot. (But, like, platonically, obviously.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter... hope you enjoy! :)

All things considered, dinner hadn’t started as the colossal fuck-up Natasha had been expecting. 

 

Clint’s cheek had gone unnoticed (as of yet), Natasha had somehow gathered the nerve to tell Wanda she looked beautiful (which, _God_ , did she ever—the redhead was still having trouble regaining the ability to breathe properly), and they were sitting down at the dining table for a glorious spread of homemade Mexican food—specifically, taquitos and fish tacos. 

 

Phil had immediately pulled her and Clint into a warm bear hug the minute they’d entered the kitchen, and Melinda had come down from upstairs to greet them (though not until after Daisy had run to the foot of the stairs, screaming _“MOM! DINNER!!!”_ loud enough to wake the neighbors three streets over, causing Phil to roll his eyes and affectionately remind Daisy to use her ‘inside voice,’ which both Clint and Natasha had snickered at) with hugs of her own, then turned to give Phil a kiss on the cheek and thank him for cooking dinner.

 

(Melinda was one of Natasha’s favorite people. Ever. 

 

She loved Phil, too, obviously, but she’d always been closer with Melinda… which worked out, considering Phil and Clint had a bizarre kind of connection she couldn’t be bothered to try and understand. 

 

Melinda was quiet, guarded, and she didn’t bother with small talk—just like Natasha. 

 

It’d taken years before the middle-aged Asian woman was greeting her routinely with a hug every time she came by, but honestly, Natasha thinks she might’ve been uncomfortable had Melinda tried to initiate that kind of affectionate physical contact any earlier.

 

Both Melinda and she moved quite similarly through the world, she’d found—cautious, reserved. 

 

But Melinda had an unbreakable steel underlying her aged but flawless skin, a quiet strength that made Natasha want to do better… to _be_ better.

 

If she was made to pick a single role model in life, it’d be Melinda May; there was no doubt about it. 

 

It also doesn’t hurt that Melinda’s dry humor and general take-no-shit presence made conversation come easy between the two of them—not to mention, she’d always been the perfect person to turn to when Clint and Phil and Daisy were banding together to engage in something even more idiotic than usual; all she had to do was lock eyes with Melinda while their Three Musketeers used a seemingly never-ending supply of moronic ideas for ill, and it was a challenge every time to keep herself from laughing when she saw the same _“I regret everything”_ look on May’s unamused face that she knew was undoubtedly reflected back on her own amidst the chaos.

 

If things went to shit with Alexei, and there was absolutely no chance for her to salvage the life she’d built in her father’s home, she’d long ago decided she’d call Melinda first. 

 

She trusted Melinda.)

 

This time after their hug, though, Melinda had given her a bone-chilling _“We need to talk”_ look with a stoic but almost motherly determination in her dark brown eyes, which, _Shit_.

 

But then the woman had turned to give Phil a rare smile and teasingly asked if they would be starting dinner any time soon, which probably meant she was going to lecture Natasha with her horribly effective ‘I’m-very-disappointed-in-you’ stare of hers _after_ their meal—despite her common sense telling her otherwise, Natasha couldn’t help but hope that maybe that meant it wasn’t serious, that maybe she and Clint had managed to go about their business without arousing any sort of suspicion like they’d planned, that maybe dreams for college weren’t slipping away from her grasp with every passing second.

 

Because who knows, right? Maybe Melinda just wanted to paint their nails together, or invite her out to lunch, or maybe do some girl talk—

 

Yeah, Natasha couldn’t even try convincing herself of that, because what an utter load of _bullshit_. 

 

No, in all likelihood, they were screwed.

 

But, she supposed there was nothing to do about it now, not with a mouth-watering meal sitting on the Coulson family’s sleek redwood dining table, not with the way her stomach was growling at her for food (she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, which was _so_ not her fault, because things had quite promptly been blown to hell after that without any kind of assist from her), and really, she supposed, even serial murderers on death row are given the right to enjoy one last meal in prison before they bite the dust. 

 

(Okay, fine, so maybe that’s a bit of an over-exaggeration—whatever; Natasha thinks she’s rather earned the right to be a little melodramatic. 

 

Point is, she knew damn well that that night might be the end of everything; maybe not the end of _her_ life, but the end of _a_ life just the same.

 

It was fucking terrifying.)

 

So, Coulson and May sat at either head of the table, the Maximoff twins on one side, Daisy sitting between Clint and Natasha on the other, easy banter exchanged between the four of them with an extroverted Pietro occasionally jumping in to join the conversation and Wanda shyly remaining more of less silent.

 

“Should we say grace?” Coulson asked a moment later, genuine confusion on his kind features (the chatter having tapered off in favor of a comfortable silence—though Pietro and Wanda both looked distinctly awkward in their seats).

 

Daisy snorted. “Dad, I don’t even know what ‘grace’ is.”

 

Melinda was radio-silent, as always, though her head was tilted quizzically, brows furrowed in a _“What the fuck, Phil?”_ expression (something Natasha knew she’d essentially perfected over the many years of their marriage).

 

“Well, I don’t know!” Coulson insisted with a shrug, sounding much younger than his age as he spoke. “I mean, I just figured since it’s like, a _thing_ families do—"

 

Clint gasped, his eyes widening almost comically large. “Oh my God,” he stated theatrically, disbelieving gaze darting from Coulson to May and back again as if watching an exceptionally intense match of tennis. "Are you guys _religious_ now?”

 

Daisy, who’d been sipping her water from a glass Chinese-style cup, choked mid-gulp, abruptly spewing a small mouthful of backwash back into the cup with an audible sputter.

 

Coulson sighed. “No, C—"

 

“Natasha,” Clint swiftly interrupted in a loud stage-whisper, having leaned back in his chair to catch her eye behind a faintly coughing Daisy. “I think the Mormons got to them.” 

 

(At least once a year without fail while Clint and Natasha were over at Daisy’s, a pair of LDS missionaries—sometimes a pair of girls, but more oftentimes it was two boys—would knock jovially on their door with a Book of Mormon in tow, beaming far too brightly and asking if they could _please_ come inside to tell Coulson and his family about the miracle of Jesus Christ Our Savior and His Glorious Plan.

 

Most of the time, they were sent away with a polite _“No, thank you, but I do admire your work as missionaries spreading your faith”_ from a visibly uncomfortable Phil—though there was one time, the first time it’d happened, and Phil had been far too polite to say ‘no,’ resulting in a very unfortunate hour which the five of them spent sitting primly on the sofas while the two Boy Scout Mormons with perfectly gelled-over hairdos talked excitedly to them all about Creation, and "Our Duty,” before ultimately ending their 60 minutes from hell by asking if they would like to be baptized in the Church. 

 

Natasha had never seen Melinda look so murderous—needless to say, Phil had slept on the couch for the next two weeks after that particular incident. 

 

And whenever the Mormon missionaries were unfortunate enough to have May be the one answering the door… Well. 

 

Natasha had originally thought that Mormon happiness and sunshine-y positivity was completely infallible, but Melinda never failed to disprove that strongly-held belief in a matter of minutes.

 

At one point, Coulson and Clint had padded into the kitchen one morning only to overhear Melinda threatening both LDS missionaries on their doorstep with egregious bodily harm that included but was most _certainly_ not limited to: castration, sensory deprivation, and forcibly broken bones, to name a few. 

 

On the few occasions it’d been Natasha or Clint who had had the honor of greeting the ever-persistent Mormons on the Coulson family’s front stoop, they made it a point to say that of _course_ they could come in and speak to Phil and his family, but that unfortunately the two of them were late for their grandmother’s wake, or a custody battle between dear old Mum and Dad, or maybe visiting hours at the state penitentiary—any sufficiently ridiculous but ultimately indisputable excuse to save themselves from the torture of small-talk with the Mormon emissaries; bonus points if they could render the two straight-laced missionaries in question utterly speechless for a good minute or two.

 

As a result, it’d become something of a running joke between Clint and Natasha and the Coulson family that one day they might surrender to the Dark Side—aka Mormonism—and an unequivocally _hysterical_ one at that.)

 

Seeing Phil’s panicked expression at Clint’s assumption, she couldn’t help herself from immediately jumping in, well before Phil could interject. “I think you’re right,” she hissed loudly back, unable to keep a wide smile from spreading on her face. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

 

Daisy’s gaze narrowed. “Shut the f—"

 

“Daisy,” May said, ice in her tone.

 

Daisy instantly snapped her mouth shut. 

 

“I thought Mormons weren’t allowed to swear,” Wanda said then, speaking for the first time since they’d all sat down for dinner, the ghost of a smirk playing on full pink lips. 

 

Natasha couldn’t stop the snort from escaping her at Wanda’s comment, her heart fluttering when the other girl’s amused blue-eyed gaze turned to lock with hers even as she could just about _feel_ Daisy fuming silently beside her.

 

Feeling suddenly whimsical with Wanda’s unconditional attention upon her (and somehow _confident_ in a way she very rarely was), she dipped a dainty index finger into the white sauce that’d dripped messily from the fish taco on her plate, before locking eyes again with Wanda as she brought the digit to her lips and sucked it slowly into her mouth, the tangy sauce exploding sweetly on her taste buds with every swirl of her tongue—Wanda, meanwhile, had a beautiful rosy blush beginning to stain her pale cheeks, her lips slightly parted with something like awe as her gaze darted from Natasha’s burning green-eyed gaze down to linger at the lips around her finger and back up again, cheeks flushing even deeper at having been caught when Natasha quirked a single entertained brow at the girl. 

 

“Oooh!” Clint yelped all of a sudden (thereby breaking the charged moment between the two girls as their gazes both darted over to the sprightly boy), his hand raised in the air as if he was in school (though he certainly didn’t wait to be called upon before speaking). “Can I ground her for breaking the Mormon code?” he turned ecstatically to Coulson sitting just adjacent to him, practically bouncing in his seat. “Please? Can I ground h— _Ow!_ “

 

Clint cut himself off when Daisy pinched his arm through his long-sleeved shirt and twisted the delicate skin there in retaliation, causing the boy to flinch violently in his seat with a loud yelp. 

 

“You were saying?” Daisy asked with faux nonchalance, retracting her hand from Clint to reach for one of three taquitos on her plate, smugly biting into it with a loud _crunch!_ as Clint stared with poorly-disguised consternation beside her. 

 

Natasha, in the meantime, had unwittingly allowed her attentions to drift back over to Wanda (though not without flashing Daisy a quick thumbs-up beside her for shutting Clint up so efficiently), who, she realized with a jolt, was staring right back at her with those intense ocean-blue eyes, the pink flush only just recently having begun to recede from her cheeks.

 

“Is that allowed?” Clint whined after a long moment in which neither parent had bothered scolding Daisy for her assault, but Natasha barely heard him. 

 

After a moment’s deliberation, Natasha broke. _“I’m sorry,”_ she mouthed to Wanda, attempting to put all the sincerity she could into her expression and hoping like hell that Wanda would understand.

 

(She didn’t want to admit that she felt every second of discontent between them like a vice tightening steadily around her heart, like an ache she just couldn’t ignore, like she couldn’t fucking _breathe_ if Wanda was upset with her.

 

She didn’t want to admit that she _cared_ even as the damning evidence of her feelings cut like a knife through her chest, even with every ounce of her being essentially _screaming_ that it would be better to make Wanda hate her, that if she could just stop being so fucking _selfish_ for once in her life, she could ensure Wanda’s safety if—no, _when_ —Alexei came back for her.

 

Maybe an apology didn’t have to mean they were together, Natasha reasoned, even as her heart virtually _ached_ for that to be true.

 

Maybe they could be _friends_ , Natasha thought hopefully—and besides, Wanda and Pietro needed a home after tonight; that easily took precedence over anything and everything else.

 

Her feelings could wait—and maybe, just maybe, they’d go away in time. 

 

Maybe she wasn’t already halfway to loving Wanda Maximoff more fiercely than she’d ever loved anyone before. 

 

Natasha hated lying to herself, but this time, she thought it might just be necessary, especially when she knew every thought about being _'friends’_ with Wanda and the hope that her feelings might fade entirely if she ignored them was a steaming crock of bullshit.

 

She prided herself on not being entirely stupid, but she’d tell herself whatever lies she had to so she could make this right.)

 

She didn’t know whether to be overwhelmingly relieved or just angry with herself when Wanda’s attentive gaze immediately softened at her soundless words, a gentle smile spreading across the Sokovian girl’s features that Natasha instinctively returned even as she cursed herself for being so unable to resist. 

 

She jumped in her seat as she heard Wanda’s voice drifting into her mind, clear words echoing to her even as Wanda’s lips remained motionless. _You have nothing to apologize for_ , she heard in that familiar angelic inflection, _and do not worry. Sending messages does not involve me seeing your thoughts. I would never do that to you. I promise._

 

Natasha couldn’t even pretend to understand the ease with which her body relaxed after her initial panic, how feeling Wanda’s voice in her head wasn’t nearly as bloody _terrifying_ as it should’ve been, but rather instilled her with a sort of safety and tranquility that was almost laughably unfamiliar, but _God_ , it felt good. 

 

She allowed an easy grin to spread across her cheeks, needing Wanda to know that it was okay—more than okay, actually. 

 

The relief that permeated Wanda’s expression felt like a crushing weight off Natasha's chest, like finally she could breathe again. 

 

(What’s more, it terrified the shit out of her, even as she craved the feeling she’d get when she smiled at Wanda and Wanda smiled back; it made everything feel like maybe the game called ‘life' wasn’t so hopeless anymore, like maybe it never had to be that way in the first place. 

 

Even now, she hadn’t forgotten about Barney lying bloodied on the kitchen table, or Alexei’s most recent message—another photo of a younger Natasha, blood smeared between her thighs, unconscious and chained to the grimy mattress in the basement—she’d received this morning, or Melinda and Phil getting Child Protective Services on the phone before neither Clint nor Natasha could get a word of protest in.

 

No, it’d take something like a massive concussion or maybe an actual _aneurysm_ to make her forget that the life around her might be temporary, that _she_ might be temporary. 

 

But somehow, Wanda was making it okay. 

 

Natasha didn’t know how to feel about that.)

 

They sat for what felt like forever (but was probably more like a minute or two) just staring at the other, entirely oblivious to the spirited chatter being exchanged by the rest of the table, Natasha nibbling idly on a well-cooked piece of fried fish with her gaze fixed on Wanda’s—and of course, Clint just couldn’t let that go unobserved, because a second later he was silencing all other conversation at the table by playfully jeering “Get a room!!” at the two of them, forcing Natasha’s breath (and therefore the fish) to catch in her throat, which triggered an involuntary fit of coughing from her even as she fixed Clint with a deadly glare. 

 

“I second that,” Pietro stated proudly, nodding happily at himself like he’d just accomplished something of merit, his messy platinum locks flopping with every self-assured bob of his head.

 

Natasha painstakingly resisted the sudden urge to throw a taquito at the boy even as her coughing had finally begun to taper off, unwilling to meet Wanda’s worried gaze while she wheezed.

 

She felt May’s warm hand on her forearm for a brief moment, silently asking if she was alright. She nodded her head quickly in the affirmative, even as her eyes watered. 

 

Seemingly satisfied that Natasha wasn’t going to die at his dining table, Phil chose that moment to pipe up with some decidedly _unhelpful_ information: “You guys should count yourselves lucky,” he said knowingly, clearing his throat as he swallowed the final bite of his taquito. “The day I invited these two lovebirds to dinner—“

 

“Shit,” Wanda cursed under her breath, the deep red blush from earlier returning to her cheeks.

 

Having also begun to see where Coulson was going, Natasha silently prayed for the ground to swallow her whole. 

 

(It didn't.)

 

“—they were demonstrating some _serious_ PDA on campus,” Phil finished, brows wiggling mischievously even as Natasha turned to stare intensely at her nearly empty plate with newfound interest, her cheeks flaming. 

 

Daisy gasped. “ _Really?_ “

 

Coulson just nodded, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Yes ma’am.”

 

Pietro nudged his sister, hazel eyes wide. “You didn’t tell me that!”

 

Wanda just ducked her head, mumbling something unintelligible even as the tips of her ears turned pink.

 

There was silence for a beat. 

 

“Well?” Daisy questioned rather emphatically after a long moment, her brown-eyed gaze darting eagerly from Wanda to Natasha, eventually landing on a tight-lipped Natasha, who’d begun pushing food aimlessly across her plate with her fork, absolutely _desperate_ to not be having that conversation right then. 

 

She let out a sigh when Daisy unsubtly bumped her shoulder. 

 

“Well, what?” Natasha asked, exasperation seeping into her tone. 

 

“What do you _mean_ ‘Well, what’?!” Daisy asked incredulously, rolling her eyes. “I wanna know the 4-1-1 on the ‘serious PDA’!” she practically yelled, her face positively wrought with anticipation.

 

_Oh God_. 

 

“Uh—"

 

“I don’t know about ‘serious’ PDA,” Wanda supplied with a mumble, her gaze still firmly downcast.

 

Natasha just nodded, grateful for the supplement as her eyes darted cagily around the table. “What she said.” 

 

Daisy just leaned even closer, a shit-eating grin on her face. “I just feel like we should know what went down,” she argued. “You know, for science.”

 

Clint snickered. “A worthy cause,” he added, even as Natasha glowered at him.

 

“So,” Daisy said, pausing for a brief moment. “Let’s t—“

 

“Okay, how about this,” Natasha blurted before she could stop herself. “We don’t talk about me and Wanda. How’s that?”

 

Silence for a moment.

 

“Oh-ho-ho!” Daisy exclaimed. “So you admit, there _is_ a you and Wanda?”

 

_Oh, fuck_. 

 

Natasha snuck a quick glance over at the girl in question, instantly regretting it when Wanda’s head was no longer downcast and their eyes locked, something entirely unreadable in that debilitating shade of blue—with great difficulty, she tore her gaze away to fix Daisy with an unimpressed stare, knowing she needed to think of something, _fast_. 

 

“It’s going to be a spring wedding,” she said in a perfect deadpan, even as her heart thrilled at the mocking prospect of her and Wanda being together like _that_. (She didn’t dare turning to look at Wanda.) “And just because of all this,” she gestured vaguely between them, “you’re not invited anymore.” 

 

Daisy pouted playfully. “Okay, ru—"

 

“Hey, Tash!” Clint called, even though they were only two seats away, the boy leaning obscenely back in his chair to fix her with a charming grin. “I’m invited, right?”

 

She snorted. “In your dreams, Barton.” 

 

Pietro squirmed in his seat, turning to his sister with hopeful eyes. “You’re gonna let me come, though, right?” 

 

“Uh—Y—Yes, yes, of course,” Wanda stammered, clearly still trying to catch up with the sudden twist their discussion had taken. 

 

“Yes!” Pietro announced, pumping his fist enthusiastically at his side. 

 

“Hold on,” Daisy said, twirling her fork aimlessly in the air, a thoughtful look on her smooth features. “Is it gonna be Natasha Maximoff or Wanda Romanoff?”

 

_Jesus Christ_ , her brain moaned. 

 

Pietro quickly piped up, “Personally, I like the second one.”

 

Natasha felt her brows creeping steadily towards her hairline, in frank disbelief that this was really a conversation they were having, and over dinner with May and Coulson, no less. 

 

“Or they could hymen-ate,” Clint said in a matter-of-factly tone around a mouthful of food.

 

_Oh, dear._

 

Daisy burst out laughing, a chuckle escaping Natasha as both twins dissolving into giggles across from her—hell, even May had the hint of a knowing smile curving her lips. 

 

(Coulson, for his part, just looked rather at a loss for words.)

 

Clint’s brow furrowed, clearly not understanding the joke. “Why is everyone laughing?”

 

Natasha just shook her head, a smirk still on her features. “It’s hyphenate, bud.”

 

“Isn’t that what I said?” 

 

“Oh, Clint,” Daisy lamented, voice tinged with mock sympathy. “Do you know what a hymen is?”

 

The boy blinked, tilting his head like a bird. “Should I?”

 

Daisy bit her lip, obviously trying not to burst out laughing again. “Well, Clinton, when two people love each other _very_ mu—“

 

“Alright-y!” Phil interrupted there with an impressive degree of forced enthusiasm. “Seems like now’s a good time for dessert!”

 

Daisy scowled. 

 

“Oh, yes,” Pietro mumbled, cheeks tinged pink as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Perfect timing.”

 

Natasha found herself nodding in agreement, even as she fought the widening smirk on her features—Wanda, meanwhile, had placed a hand with neatly black-painted fingernails over her mouth as she shook with silent laughter, clearly taking a great deal of pleasure in her twin’s palpable discomfort.

 

(Natasha had never seen anything so beautiful.)

 

Then Daisy was placing a casual hand on Clint’s built shoulder, leaning in to not-so-quietly whisper: “Don’t worry, bud. I’ll tell you all about them later.”

 

A strangled noise escaped Phil’s throat at that, the man starting to hack and cough violently on nothing as his cheeks reddened. 

 

“Right,” he said in a gravelly tone once he’d managed to regain control of his breathing, the ruddiness still tinging his face. “I’m going to go get the dessert. Also, you’re grounded,” he said hoarsely, nodding decisively to a wide-eyed Daisy and ignoring her scandalized _“What?”_ in repsonse.

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

Dessert, as it turned out, was a white square-shaped box of donuts from Mrs. Murphy’s down over at Manchester Center.

 

Natasha thought she was going to be sick.

 

Alexei loved Mrs. Murphy’s Donuts—he brought a box with him (or at least a donut or two) every time he came down to “see” Natasha, ripping the fried dough into chunks and hand-feeding them to Natasha after he was finished with her.

 

She was always far too weak and battered to protest, and her father had never been all that good about remembering to feed his live-in sex toy trapped in the basement to begin with—she ate the donuts when Alexei provided them.

 

She refused as politely as she could when Phil kindly offered her the box, the contents of her stomach churning with nausea.

 

Clint, bless him, followed suit, claiming he was far too full to eat anything more, even as she knew that such a thing was utterly impossible.

 

(It’d been a rainy day at the start of their 10th grade at Tesseract when she’d told him about Mrs. Murphy’s.

 

He’d been ecstatic about going there, prattling on and on about how all the other kids claimed they were the best donuts in town, that he couldn’t believe he’d been living in Vermont so long with trying them—but he didn’t want to go for the first time without her. 

 

She’d told him to go on his own, that she didn’t even _like_ donuts, which was a lie, that she hoped they turned out to be everything he’d expected and more. 

 

He’d been so stubborn, she remembers, saying he didn’t care about the donuts if she wasn’t there right by his side too.

 

And even now, she’ll wonder where the hell he learned such defiance, because the Clint Barton she met in the 3rd grade probably hadn’t even known the meaning of the word—and then it’ll suddenly dawn on her that it’s her, that _she_ taught him to fight like hell for the things that mattered, and she’ll think that maybe she’s done some good in the world after all. 

 

Still, she’ll think that maybe she’s grown a little closer to deserving life on Earth, that maybe she has a chance of evening out the scales before she goes… she’ll think that maybe she’ll never be good, but that maybe wiping out all the bad, all the _red_ , is what she should strive for.

 

They ended up going to Mrs. Murphy’s together that afternoon, once school had let out for the day. 

 

Natasha had told herself she wasn't going to order anything, that she was just there for Clint, that he could eat the chocolate sprinkles donut he’d been talking her ear off about the past couple of days, and then they could leave. 

 

Simple. 

 

It was the farthest thing from simple.

 

She knew as soon as she stepped up to that counter with Clint, that she’d be drinking that night. A lot. 

 

She couldn’t help wanting to hurl at the familiar smell, couldn’t help looking frantically over her shoulder every couple of seconds like Alexei might be watching, couldn’t help the tremble in her hands as she saw rows upon rows of the exact kinds of donuts Alexei would bring her in the basement; meanwhile, Clint had been far too lost in the novelty of it to notice her growing discomfort—at least, at first. 

 

They were waiting for Clint’s donut, still, because the teenaged girl two people before them had ordered the last chocolate sprinkles donut, so they’d have to wait until the next batch came out to get it.

 

Her stomach was churning, the bright interior of Mrs. Murphy's was spinning around her, black spots beginning to dance in her murky vision—and then she felt a solid grip around her jacket-clad arm, one she was far too disoriented to bother fighting against as it dragged her forcibly out of the shop and across the street.

 

A thought in the back of her mind was telling her that it was Alexei who’d taken her, that he’d found her again, that she was going straight back to the horrible life she’d lived just a year previous.

 

It’s probably sad that she relaxed even further into the unknown person’s grip at that, because there was sense of finality about it all—a sense that she’d reached the end, and heaven knew she’d been searching for that since the day her father raped her for the very first time.

 

It represented the end of looking over her shoulder, of constant paranoia, of forever worrying about seeing her father’s friends on the streets, of being terrified they’d take her and make her a slave to their desire yet again—there was a certainty in the very worst scenario she’d imagined coming true. 

 

But it wasn’t Alexei. It was Clint. 

 

She hated the twinge of disappointment she felt in her chest then, because this meant she was safe—this meant she had to keep fighting, and _God_ , she was tired of getting up every goddamned time, of having to face the same fucking world that’d been trying to bury her since before she could remember.

 

That night was their first sleepover, coincidentally, and Natasha told him everything. 

 

She’d cried, and he’d cried too, and they’d fallen asleep curled up in each other like they’d finally found love, the kind everyone kills themselves searching for in life. 

 

And in a way, they had. 

 

Clint never took her to Mrs. Murphy’s Donuts again. 

 

He didn’t go himself, either, even despite Natasha’s insistence that it was fine if he did, that it wouldn’t change a single thing between them.

 

Still, he’d been stubborn—so goddamned stubborn. 

 

She loves him with everything she has.)

 

In her desperate attempts to quell the queasiness in her gut, she barely noticed Wanda declining the donuts, too, the girl's attentive blue-eyed gaze seeming to bore straight through Natasha, like she knew what was happening, like she was trying to say with that simple gesture that she’d go to bat for Natasha every time, too, just like Clint.

 

She’d never wanted to kiss Wanda so badly, because _God_ , she didn’t deserve it and she knew she didn’t, but she was nothing if not selfish and Wanda was everything she’d wanted since well before she knew what wanting felt like.

 

She knows she shouldn’t feel this way, that she’s far too young to look at a single girl and feel like she’s _it_ , like she’s all Natasha has ever needed, like suddenly she’s hoping for the existence of heaven above, because she wants to see Wanda there after she’s gone and she’s not sure it’ll be much of a heaven at all if she doesn’t… but she does and she is and it’s taking her by storm.

 

_Fuck_ , she thinks, because she can’t deny it any more, and it’d be fucking _stupid_ to even try. _Maybe this is what falling in love feels like._

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

She tells Wanda to stick around while May has a “talk” with her and Clint. And Phil, too, she guesses.

 

(She certainly doesn’t expect her to; Wanda’s never owed her a single goddamned _thing_.)

 

Wanda does, and Natasha fears her chest might burst with an emotion that scares the ever-loving _shit_ out of her, because it feels a hell of a lot like devotion—and not the friendship kind. 

 

Then a stony-faced Melinda (though to be fair, that is her typical expression) is wordlessly gesturing for Clint and Natasha to follow her down the hall, not sparing a single glance over her shoulder to check that they would—she knows that _they_ know there’s no escaping her. 

 

It’s terrifying, but it’s also what makes her such an amazing mother to Daisy. 

 

After exchanging hesitant looks with Clint, Natasha takes the lead (though her heart beats painfully fast in her chest) to dutifully follow May down the hall, leaving Daisy and the twins in the living room staring curiously after them.

 

_Fuck_. 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗


	24. bulletproof (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha have a "talk" with May. 
> 
> It goes... sort of okay? Ish?

“I’m going to give you one chance to be honest with me,” Melinda said in her flat, no-bullshit tone as they entered the two-car garage, housing a black almost government-style SUV (May’s), and a well-loved cherry-red Corvette named Lola (Coulson’s). 

 

(Natasha noted with a start that Phil was nowhere to be seen, which, _Fuck_.

 

There was just Melinda, in tight black jeans and a matching black leather jacket, arms crossed and staring at them as if urging them to reveal all their secrets by sheer force of will—which, considering it was May, most definitely wasn’t an unreasonable feat.

 

That meant that there was no ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine—no, Clint and Natasha were getting grilled by the bad cop straight out of the gates, which, again, _Fuck_. )

 

May leaned herself comfortably against the metal bull bars attached to the SUV’s front (because it was absolutely no surprise to anyone that her personal car would be built like a bulletproof-armored federal vehicle), while both Clint and Natasha stood side by side across from her in the dimly lit (but spotless) garage space, each wearing the best poker face they could manage (though Natasha’s was undoubtedly a hell of a lot more convincing than Clint’s).

 

“Uh—About what?” Clint squeaked, voice crackling like he was again going through puberty for the very first time.

 

Natasha fought the urge to roll her eyes.

 

If Melinda was in the habit of actually expressing herself (visually, at least), Natasha thinks she’d probably actually _have_ rolled her eyes like Natasha wanted to so badly. 

 

“Someone hit you. Hard,” she said instead in response to the boy, her face utterly expressionless, her tone flat ( _Fuck_ ). “And as for you,” she turned her steely gaze over to Natasha. “You have blood in your hair.”

 

( _Double fuck_.)

 

“Where’s Phil?” Natasha found herself asking in lieu of an answer, even despite the palpable fear she could feel crawling in her throat combined with the weight of Melinda’s stare.

 

May didn’t move a single muscle. “He’s on the phone, but he’ll be joining us once he’s done.”

 

There was a loaded silence then while May stood unrelenting, even as Natasha racked her brain for any plausible excuse to get them both out of this unscathed.

 

(May cared for them, she knew—but she also knew that the woman had never shied away from the consequences of tough love. 

 

It was just yet another reason she was such a phenomenal parent. 

 

Oftentimes, Natasha wished she had had a parent like Melinda instead of what she’d been given, even as she knew it was a horribly selfish thought to have.

 

It’s not like she’d ever deserve such a thing, anyhow.

 

Point was, May would do what needed to be done. She always had.

 

Even if it hurt.)

 

“Anything you two would like to share?” Melinda asked, a single brow raising incrementally.

 

She heard Clint swallow thickly beside her. “I—"

 

“Bloody nose for me,” Natasha interjected quickly, doing her best not to waver as she met Melinda’s shrewd brown-eyed gaze. “Thought I got all the blood out in the shower,” she shrugged as casually as she could manage. “Guess not.”

 

The single eyebrow raised even further at that; clearly, May wasn’t convinced. “And Barton’s face?”

 

“My fault,” Natasha responded, allowing her voice to crack for the sake of authenticity—she needed to sell this, because lying to Melinda (especially when taking into account how much she’d grown to love the woman who’d become a devoted mother to Daisy) was just a hair short of impossible on even the luckiest of days. (Natasha didn’t have “lucky days.”) “A nightmare got me, and I elbowed him in my sleep before I knew what I was doing.” Her voice was hoarse, her gaze averted to the smooth concrete between her scuffed shoes—but she knew it would help, knew that _May_ knew that getting her to talk honestly about her trauma and its effects was something akin to forcibly pulling teeth without any kind of general anesthesia; in other words, it was really fucking hard. 

 

She didn’t dare look up to see May’s expression after, just hoped with every bone in her body that she’d been sufficiently convincing with her words. 

 

There was another long silence—Natasha could feel May’s calculating gaze boring straight through her even as she kept her own eyes firmly downcast with Clint standing stiffly at her side, neither of them daring to move. 

 

The sound of the door opening abruptly broke the silence, gratitude washing over her even as she fought the urge to flinch at the sudden noise (Clint wasn’t so disciplined—his body jerked violently in place, a small whimper dying in his throat before he was whipping his head around with impressive haste to see the source of the intrusion).

 

Natasha did the same, albeit with noticeably more self-control—it was just Phil, the man pattering happily through the doorway (wearing only the ‘Dad flip-flops’ Clint always gave him a hard time for on his feet) and sliding his compact black phone smoothly into his pocket as he approached. 

 

“Hey kids!” he said cheerfully, either oblivious to or just outright ignoring the weighted tension in the room (probably the latter, Natasha reasoned—Phil was a hell of a lot more perceptive than people ever gave him credit for, and as a result, people often tended to underestimate him; she’s long since suspected the man did it on purpose, because it was certainly an effective technique). “What’d I miss?” he asked, situating himself to lean casually next to Melinda against her insanely tricked-out SUV in the dingy garage. 

 

Natasha had never been so grateful to be interrupted in her life.

 

She didn’t dare offer up a response to the cheerful man, though, and she was grateful that Clint had enough sense not to try that either.

 

“Just some accidents,” Melinda spoke eventually, her solemn gaze still darting between Clint and Natasha. “They’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”

 

(She still didn’t look convinced.)

 

_Holy shit_ , Natasha thought, unable to quite believe or understand what she was seeing. _Was she gonna let this go?_

 

“Ah,” Phil hummed, looking for all the world as if he were relaxing on some beach in Fiji… or maybe Tahiti. (Phil had been there some time ago while Melinda had been out of the country on business, and he’d become rather obsessed with the beautiful French Polynesian island as a result—whenever they asked, the details were rather scant, but without fail he’d always say, ‘It’s a magical place.’) “Anything we can hep with?”

 

Natasha hated the way her heart clenched at Phil’s genuine expression, sincerity coming off of the kind man in waves— _God_ , she hated lying to the only two adults she’d ever trusted or cared for in her short life, even as she knew damn well there was no other way.

 

“More taquitos?” Clint questioned before she could think of a response, relief suffusing itself through her chest at his ability to lighten any kind of situation as Coulson immediately let out an amused chuckle—Christ, she adored him.

 

“You got it, bud,” the man said, the smile on his face crinkling the corners of soft brown eyes. “And we want you guys to know we’re here for you, okay? Always, even if it’s bad,” cursing silently, Natasha knew she should’ve expected that he’d see straight through their bullshit—though, she had done one part well, that being her refusal to give them anything concrete to prove their prudent suspicions. “We’re here, any time of the day.” 

 

Melinda nodded slowly but genuinely beside him, though admittedly she still looked rather miffed at the entire situation. 

 

(Natasha couldn’t blame her—the guilt was curling in her gut in the most unpleasant way as she stood there beside Clint in the wake of her bold-faced lies, her entire body practically teeming with the urge to just tell them the goddamned _truth_ and fuck the consequences.

 

But she knew better. She always had.

 

That didn’t mean she had to like it.)

 

“We know,” Natasha assented quietly, then painstakingly lifted her gaze to meet Phil and May’s—she owed them that much, she figured. 

 

(She didn’t want to think about how angry they’d be when—rather than _if_ —they found out she and Clint had been lying to them for years.

 

She didn’t know if it’d be tonight or tomorrow, or maybe after they'd gone to college, but she was fairly convinced they couldn’t keep this front up forever.

 

She doubted Melinda would give her another hug ever again, and they would definitely be kissing Phil’s top-notch cooking goodbye—taquitos included. 

 

She’s accepted that, she thinks.

 

Doesn’t mean it’s not gonna hurt like hell when it happens, but she’s never tried deluding herself into believing they’d stick around for her after that. 

 

Which is fine, she supposes—it’s not like she’d ever deserved their kindness; it’d never been a secret that her own parents had hated her, for Christ’s sake.

 

A lot of times she thinks there’s definitely gotta be a reason for that, for why the two people who were supposed to love her unconditionally never did, for how they despised their own flesh and blood so bitterly from the very start, especially to the degree that they purposefully went out of their own way to hurt and abandon her at every turn. 

 

Her parents were fucked up, but they weren’t crazy—what’s more, all the abuse she’d suffered in her life inevitably had one common denominator: her.

 

Which brings her back to May and Coulson, because she never understood their play behind loving her, or at least acting as if they did, in the first place. She’s utterly baffled by it, because what purpose has she ever served for them? 

 

She can’t give them money, or anything that they don’t already have, and Phil hasn’t shown even the slightest hint of interest in her body, so really, she doesn’t have a single fucking clue, and she’s been confused as all hell about it for years. 

 

Not that she’s not grateful for it. 

 

She likes Phil, but she’s not sure how badly it’d hurt to have sex with him—and she doesn’t mean that in the physical sense. She’s grown rather used to that part of it. 

 

She just knows it’d hurt. A lot.

 

So, she’s grateful he’s never asked. 

 

But again, there’s a downside, because it practically guarantees what’s going to happen when all their lies fall apart: they’ll be alone. Again, since they have nothing to offer. 

 

They can handle it, she knows, but she’s angry with herself for it just the same, because they shouldn’t have to. 

 

Well, actually, no— _Clint_ shouldn’t have to. She’s a different story. 

 

Clint doesn’t deserve to lose the only pair of adults he’s ever managed to trust since he was little, the one iota of stability they’ve somehow found in a world that’s shown its distaste for him in spades, the single place he’d been able to call ‘safe’ where nowhere else had ever even remotely resembled such a thing.

 

She might deserve it, but he never has. He’s better. He always has been.

 

He doesn't hurt people; he doesn’t steal unless he has to; he doesn’t drink and lie and use sex as a means for information.

 

Simply put, he’s not like her.

 

He’s the reason for this, for why she’s been trying to make their lies so bulletproof and believable that Phil and May never have to find out, even as she knows that that’s delusional at best.

 

Sometimes—most of the time—she thinks Clint is the only reason she hasn't cocked Yevgeni’s sidearm and spattered her brains across the walls. 

 

She doesn’t need to make it—if she does, that’s a nice bonus, obviously, even if it is entirely undeserved on her part.

 

She doesn’t need to make it, but she’ll fight like hell to ensure that he does. 

 

He’s the only reason any of this matters… And maybe Wanda, too, though Natasha knows she’s stupid for thinking that.

 

It’s stupid because she’s letting Wanda mean far too much in far too short a span of time, and it’s stupid to reroute every plan in her mind so that there’s a part where Natasha ensures the other girl’s safety first, but it’s happening just the same and she’s loathe try and stop the inevitable—she knows all too well how poorly that ends.

 

But still, the objective hasn’t changed. Natasha just had one—two, actually, because Pietro as well—more passengers to send on their way before she can rest.)

 

Natasha uttered her thanks, and Clint did too, and sooner than she could blink, they were being led back to the living room by a smile-y Coulson and a decidedly less smile-y Melinda.

 

Natasha felt the relief dispersing in her chest like a balm she hadn’t known she needed, like she’d finally fought hard enough to make them safe—but there was something else there, too. 

 

It felt a hell of a lot like disappointment.

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗


	25. foreigner | 老外 (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda and Pietro talk with Daisy. 
> 
> Things seem to be looking up.

Natasha and Clint were gone a while. 

 

Okay, maybe not a _while_ , but enough to make Wanda nervous. 

 

(And granted, there were a lot of things that made Wanda nervous, but still.)

 

Five minutes? Ten, maybe? She’d lost track. 

 

At one point, Pietro had not-so-softly nudged her shoulder with his (they were still seated on the couch from earlier, a sated-looking Daisy sprawled haphazardly across the opposite sofa), her twin complaining, “Stop it; you’re making _me_ nervous.”

 

(There was no outward physical indicators to imply she was nervous: she kept herself perfectly still, hands folded somewhat neatly on her lap, and dutifully resisted the urge to bite anxiously at her bottom lip—but this happened sometimes, though only with Pietro, where her stronger emotions would seep inexplicably into his, and vice versa. 

 

They’d come up with the conclusion eventually that due to their strong neural link, they’d developed the ability somewhere down the line to feel each other’s stronger emotions—and if they both concentrated hard enough, they could feel _everything_ , not just the more prominent feelings their other half was experiencing.

 

At first, it’d been scary—but quickly enough, it grew to become a sort of comfort, a reassurance that there was someone else out there, someone who cared enough to pray that the other made it home safe every night. 

 

For privacy’s sake, though, especially now that they were growing older, Wanda and Pietro tried as best as they could to keep themselves out of each other’s heads when there was no need for it—it’d been _so_ embarrassing for Wanda when she’d first developed a crush on that beautiful Sokovian girl in their class which thereby triggered her “gay awakening,” as Pietro had teasingly called it, and in the middle of class, Pietro had the misfortune of feeling every stupid impulse-driven emotion that swirled in her chest as she stared dumbly after the captivating girl.

 

She’d become far better about keeping those kinds of feelings under wraps.

 

She thinks she might’ve done well enough to avoid overwhelming herself with awe and wanting when she’d met Natasha for the first time, because if Pietro had been made to share in her hopelessly gay thoughts about the Russian girl, he hadn’t said anything. 

 

It was a difficult balance to maintain, but it’d also saved their lives on more than one occasion, especially when they’d returned to Sokovia before their first term at Tesseract, and were thrown headfirst into a violent face-off with the snake people’s whizzing bullets and unrelenting cruelty. 

 

In the midst of all the life-threatening conflict, it was often hard to communicate verbally while Pietro flashed from one point to another, and Wanda was putting all of her focus towards her magic, because catching bullets with psychologically-controlled energy was no small task and a single lapse in concentration would mean game over—for both of them, probably, because Wanda knew Pietro had a slim chance of surviving on his own if they managed to kill her first. 

 

The neural link felt something like a godsend on that particular trip, like when Wanda was far more hurt than she’d have cared to admit in the government building shootout, and even from three levels away, Pietro could feel his sister's pain as if it were his own; sooner than her failing brain could process, her twin was zooming through the atrium and picking her up at breakneck speed on the way, Wanda’s weakened energy dissolving as a spatter of bullets hit the walls and desks exactly where she'd been standing just less than a second before Pietro had snatched her.

 

So, it had its deficits, of course—but ultimately, Wanda wouldn’t have it any other way.)

 

At that, Daisy smirked, still draped messily across the couch (while Wanda attempted to tamp down on her overpowering uneasiness, not wanting to upset her twin when she was, in all likelihood, worrying incessantly over nothing). “Yea, girl, relax,” she hummed, something playful dancing in her dark brown eyes. “Mom and Dad will bring your girlfriend back in one piece.” 

 

Even though she knew Daisy’s teasing words were coming, Wanda couldn’t help the flush that rose in her cheeks in response, but she didn’t bother this time to protest against the “girlfriend” part of it all—she figured there was no use.

 

“Sorry,” Wanda mumbled out her apology, willing the blush in her cheeks to abate. “I am often nervous, even when I know there’s no reason for it.”

 

Daisy’s teasing smirk almost immediately grew softer, more genuine as she gazed thoughtfully at Wanda, nodding her head slowly in something like understanding. “I get that,” she admitted, one hand coming up to fiddle with the thin golden bracelet surrounding her wrist while the joking aura in the room steadily diminished. “Do you guys miss home at all?” 

 

Wanda nodded almost instantly in response to the question, feeling an uncharacteristically wordless Pietro doing the same beside her. 

 

“Yes,” she stated after a moment or two, something urging her to tell Daisy more, to be honest. (She was Clint and Natasha’s close friend; if they trusted her, Wanda didn’t see why she shouldn’t, too.) “But things were not great there, not for us or our family,” she paused, biting her lip. “It’s better to be here.” 

 

Daisy just nodded again, like she understood. Maybe she did. “I was born in China,” the girl revealed, and Wanda’s ears perked up, her interest peaked. “In a small village. I don’t remember it much, but a lot of bad things happened there—I rarely ever miss it, you know? Things got better when I came here.” 

 

“Woah,” Pietro breathed out beside her, an awe-struck expression on his sharp features. “China? That’s so cool!” 

 

A lopsided (but distinctly surprised) smirk spread across the Asian girl’s features. “Thanks, P,” she said with a laugh. “I rarely ever get people telling me that.”

 

(Wanda’s chest warmed at the nickname Daisy had given her twin; she was still ever-wary of the feeling building in her chest that felt something like belonging, but God if it didn’t feel good, and _Shit_ if she wasn’t grateful for it anyhow.)

 

Wanda tilted her head. “Why not?” 

 

“Communism.”

 

Pietro snorted. “Us, too,” he furrowed his brow. “What is that American saying? Telling lessons to the church singers?”

 

Daisy’s grin widened, but she didn’t look condescending—just genuinely amused. “Preaching to the choir.” 

 

Her twin snapped his fingers with an “A-ha!”, hazel eyes sparking with excitement (though not literally, which Wanda was relieved to see). “Yes, that’s the one. Can you speak Chinese?” 

 

“ 我的中文不太好，可是我会说话得像样 _(wǒ de zhōngwén bù tài hǎo, kěshì wǒ huì shuōhuà de xiàng yàng)_ , “ she finished easily, cockily wiggling her brows as Pietro’s eyes widened comically with every foreign syllable.

 

Wanda felt a smile stretching across her cheeks despite herself, especially at the sight of an absolutely gobsmacked Pietro beside her. “I take it that’s a yes, then?” 

 

Daisy shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “They still call me 老外 _(lǎo wài)_ when I go back home. Assholes.”

 

Pietro’s eyes were still comically wide. “What’s that mean?”

 

“Foreigner.”

 

Wanda crinkled her nose. “Assholes indeed.”

 

Daisy giggled suddenly at that, her peals of laughter seeming to literally brighten the room. “I like you guys,” she chortled. “I mean, I was pretty sure I would, since Nat and Bird Boy like you, but, you guys are cool.” 

 

“Ah,” Wanda replied playfully, raising her brows for dramatic effect. “The great Daisy Johnson has deemed us worthy,” she gestured wildly with her hands, then turned to her brother. “It’s like we’ve won the lottery, huh, bud?”

 

A smirking Pietro opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Daisy was laughing loudly and saying, “Alright, fuck off—I get it. I think I’m hot shit, but I’m not.” 

 

“Well, I’ve been trying to tell her that for ages,” came Natasha’s voice from the doorway—everyone’s heads turned to see a smug Natasha and a slightly out-of-it Clint standing two steps behind her, with Mrs. May and Mr. Coulson bringing up the rear.

 

Daisy shook her head wryly. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, Romanoff.”

 

“Johnson, I could take you any day.” Natasha quipped back with a snort as she waltzed further into the room, deliberately taking her place just next to Wanda on the sofa, their thighs touching when the redheaded girl sank into the cushions. (Wanda felt her heart skip a beat.)

 

“Hey,” she whispered quietly over to Natasha, feeling shy, like they were meeting again for the very first time.

 

Natasha’s crooked smile widened. “Hey.” 

 

“Did that,” she beckoned with her head over to Daisy’s parents (who were now standing side-by-side in the doorway, content smiles on both their faces), “go okay?” 

 

(She really didn’t want to pry, or make Natasha uncomfortable by demanding a response—but for the briefest of seconds when May had pulled the other girl aside, she’d just looked so lost and _frightened_ before managing to school her features into something that resembled neutrality; meanwhile, Clint had looked as if he might pee his pants.

 

She couldn’t help but wonder just what it was they were so afraid of.)

 

Luckily, Natasha didn’t seem to be bothered by the question (or at least, as far as Wanda could tell—Natasha was ridiculously hard to read most of the time). “Yeah,” she murmured back with a barely-audible sigh. “They were just worried, you know…” Natasha trailed off, her green-eyed gaze turning distant for a moment. “They’re good parents.” She said that last part the quietest, like it was a secret—and in a way, Wanda thinks it might’ve been.

 

(She’d guard it with her life.)

 

“They are,” Wanda affirmed gently. “Daisy is lucky.” 

 

“Yeah,” Natasha mumbled, looking slightly distracted as she turned to watch Mrs. May and Mr. Coulson smiling and laughing with a mockingly exasperated Daisy. “Yeah, she is.”

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

It was well after 8pm, and they’d said their goodbyes to Daisy’s family, graciously accepting (though not quite truly believing) their insistence that they all had to do dinner again sometime soon, and that Mr. Coulson and Mrs. May would be more than happy to host.

 

(Wanda thought they seemed to good to be true. 

 

What was their angle? 

 

 _Was_ there an angle? 

 

It was making Wanda’s head hurt, but Natasha and Clint seemed to trust them—for now, that would have to be enough.)

 

It was cold outside—freezing, honestly. Wanda couldn’t help involuntary shivers running through her body as the four of them (Natasha, Clint, Pietro, and her) stumbled out in the residential road, exchanging easy banter under the yellowy luminescence of the street lights. 

 

(If she could see her breath before, she felt like a dragon now, billows of cloudy grey escaping her on every exhale. _God_ , it was cold.)

 

Natasha, after shoving Clint playfully for some reason or another, hung back to match Wanda’s stride. “Cold?” she asked, a single brow raised.

 

Wanda’s cheeks flushed, though thankfully it was dark enough to go unnoticed. “Maybe.” 

 

“C’mon,” Natasha declared, gesturing for Wanda (and Pietro) to follow her over to her car. “I have an extra hoodie. It’ll be warmer than your jacket.” 

 

“I feel bad that I keep stealing all your clothes,” Wanda protested weakly even as a thrill that had nothing to do with the cold ran down her spine at the prospect of wearing Natasha’s hoodie, which would undoubtedly smell like vanilla bean and the forest and something else she couldn’t quite name, something that was entirely _Natasha_.

 

Natasha just rolled her eyes as they reached the car (Clint and Pietro trailing behind and guffawing together about… well, Wanda wasn’t sure—something stupid, most likely). “Am I supposed to let you freeze?” she quipped, not waiting for an answer as she popped the trunk and dug around while Wanda stood just off to the side, trying desperately not to tremble as the frigid wind bit painfully at every inch of exposed skin.

 

There was a great deal of clutter in the trunk of Natasha’s car, but Wanda did her best not to look (a bit scared she’d be invading Natasha’s privacy by doing so)—Clint, meanwhile, had no such reservations. (Which, Wanda supposed made sense, him being the best friend and all.)

 

“Tash, there’s literally _so_ much vodka in here,” he remarked, both him and Pietro craning their necks in sync on either side of Wanda to get a peek. 

 

“Don’t be dramatic, Barton,” came Natasha’s muffled voice, still searching for the hoodie. “There’s only two bottles.” 

 

Turning around a second later, Natasha held up a burgundy-red zip-up hoodie with a thick white stripe around the middle (bordered with blue), the word ‘Россия’ stitched in white on the left shoulder. “Trade you?” Natasha asked then, offering the hoodie to Wanda with the softest of grins. 

 

“Of course,” Wanda practically whispered, moving quickly to rid herself of the red faux-leather jacket even as she shivered at the feeling of cold wind on her newly exposed arms, barely registering Natasha gently taking the jacket from her grip and throwing it into the trunk. 

 

(She noticed Natasha staring, though, so she decided she definitely didn’t mind.)

 

Then Natasha was motioning for her to turn around, and she did, albeit with a tiny shiver, unable to keep from smiling to herself as Natasha helped slide each of her arms into the warm sleeves of the hoodie—she didn’t even bother being annoyed at the knowing smirks both Pietro and Clint were sending her way, because nothing could ruin the feeling of Natasha close and warm and helping Wanda into her jacket, not in a million years.

 

A moment later, she was turning around to face Natasha and fumbling with the zipper, an almost unreadable (but unmistakably _tender_ ) look on the redhead’s features as Wanda zipped it carefully up about two-thirds of the way. “How do I look?”

 

Natasha swallowed thickly, something Wanda couldn’t quite place glinting in her dark green eyes under the scant light of the street. “Perfect,” she husked out eventually even as Wanda could see Clint dramatically rolling his eyes off to the side.

 

Warmth fluttered in Wanda’s chest. 

 

“Alright, lesbians!” Clint announced, clapping his hands together, seemingly impervious to the matching glares both Natasha and Wanda immediately sent his way. “So, what happens now?” He shared a meaningful look with Natasha, then, a sort of urgency flashing in his tired eyes that startled Wanda, having never seen something so serious and pleading from the boy before.

 

Natasha, despite Clint’s impatience, just turned to eye Wanda and Pietro. “Do you guys have a ride?”

 

Pietro shook his head. 

 

“It’s okay, though,” Wanda assured her, blue eyes darting tentatively between Clint and Natasha. “You guys have somewhere to be, and we were just going to walk anyways.”

 

Natasha didn’t budge. “It’s a long walk.” 

 

“We need the exercise,” Wanda replied with a shrug. 

 

At that, Natasha smirked, not even trying for subtlety as she made a show of eyeing Wanda up and down appreciatively. “You definitely don’t,” she said pointedly, and Wanda felt her cheeks burn hotly in response. “And I’m not going to let you guys freeze. Get in; I’ll drive you.”

 

Wanda opened her mouth to protest, but quickly cut herself off at the firm _‘Don’t even try it’_ look Natasha gave her. “Okay,” she mumbled instead, feeling her heart flutter as Natasha smiled. 

 

“Shotgun!” Clint suddenly yelled, darting quickly to the front passenger's-side door. 

 

Natasha just rolled her eyes as she fished her keys out of the pocket of her (Clint’s) sweatpants. “What an idiot,” she muttered.

 

Wanda giggled to herself, feeling surrounded in warmth even as her breath fogged over in the chilly night air—catching Pietro in the corner of her eye, she saw him smiling, too, his hazel eyes sparkling with happiness. 

 

Things were looking up.

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't use Google Translate for Daisy's Chinese because I've been taking Mandarin for the last 6-7ish years or so?
> 
> That said, my Chinese is the farthest thing from perfect, so any mistakes are all on me.
> 
> 《 我的中文不太好，可是我会说话得像样 》| _(wǒ de zhōngwén bù tài hǎo, kěshì wǒ huì shuōhuà_  
>  de xiàng yàng) | "My Chinese isn't great, but I can speak enough to get by."
> 
> And I took maybe a year or so of Russian, so my Russian isn't great either (don't worry; definitely will not try and form sentences for the sake of everyone), but Россия translates directly to 'Russia'


	26. heparin (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barney's condition takes a turn for the worse.

They never got to the trailer. 

 

By Natasha’s estimate, they were about halfway there when Clint’s cell trilled, and instantly they were both looking at each other with matching _“Oh shit”_ expressions because in all likelihood it was Barney, and Barney would only contact them if something was wrong, like _really_ wrong, and they still had two happy unsuspecting Maximoff twins in the backseat, which, no _way_ would she drop them off first, thereby gambling Barney’s life for the sake of their secrecy, but it most certainly meant they now had a hell of a lot of explaining to do, and Oh _Shit_.

 

“Change of plans,” she’d announced, hating the slight tremble in her voice as her eyes locked with the blue of Wanda’s in the rearview mirror.

 

“What?” Wanda had asked, looking vaguely concerned. 

 

Natasha had exchanged looks with Clint then, even with the knowledge that the twins could see them clear as day while they did. “We’ll explain later. I promise,” was all she could manage before she was yanking the steering wheel to throw them _hard_ into a screeching U-turn—no screaming from Clint this time, but Natasha couldn’t find it in her to bother being grateful, because instead of emitting overtly verbose bouts of panic the boy was uncharacteristically silent and staring at his phone like the world was ending, the deep furrow in his brow illuminated by the light of the screen, which, _Shit_. 

 

Natasha pressed harder on the gas, barely registering the heightened roar of the engine beneath her. “How bad?” 

 

Clint bit his lip, his attentions still on the phone. “Bad.”

 

Natasha raised a brow, fighting to stay calm as her heart hammered in her chest. “Hospital?”

 

“We’ll see.” He looked miserable, and it tore through Natasha like a sharpened blade. 

 

“Alright,” she gritted her teeth as they blew through a ‘Stop' sign. “Almost there."

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

“Where are we?” Wanda asks once they’ve screeched to a halt in the Barton’s driveway.

 

Natasha meets Wanda’s curious blue eyes in the rearview then, even as Clint bursts out of his seat and up the front steps like a shot, desperate to reach his brother inside. 

 

“Clint’s house,” she replies quickly before she's getting out, too, running after Clint and into the house, beckoning behind her for Wanda and Pietro to follow as more of an afterthought than anything else. 

 

Once inside, she's met with a shirtless and bloodied Barney, still laid exactly where they’d last left him on the dining table, but he's drenched in sweat and wheezing like an asthmatic, his lips tinged a worrying shade of blue, eyelids fluttering as if hanging on with everything he has to the last vestiges of his consciousness, and _Shit_. 

 

She belatedly hears the sound of the door closing somewhere off behind her, and the stumbled footfalls of the Maximoff twins entering the house, but Clint is gripping his brother’s hand with a white-knuckled grip and he looks like he might just cry (he _never_ cries) and Natasha is trying to make herself _think_ , running through symptoms and medical conditions in her mind because Barney is coughing up blood again, choking on it in his throat and she doesn’t kn—

 

“Natasha,” Clint practically sobs, pain etched deeply into his features. “What’s _happening?_ ” 

 

_Think, Natasha. Think._

 

Hemodynamic Instability? No, that’s—Severe concussion? Probably, but that’s the least of their worries right now. Concussions don’t turn lips blue.

 

_Think_. 

 

Excessive sweating. Likely due to a high fever. 

 

Coughing up blood. 

 

Shortness of breath. 

 

Chest pain. 

 

Blue lips caused most likely by an under-oxygenated nervous system (rather than hypothermia, because _duh_ ).

 

Massive hemothorax? _No, he doesn’t feel cold_ …

 

Tracheobronchial injur— _No, definitely not_.

 

Pulmonary embolism. _That’s it_.

 

She barely notices the twins on either side of her as the realization hits. “Pulmonary embolism.”

 

“I don’t know what the _hell_ that is,” Clint nearly screeched, his blue eyes filling rapidly with tears as he stood crouched protectively over Barney’s spastic form. 

 

“Blood clot in the lungs,” she barely hears herself say as she’s approaching Barney, checking his pulse with trembling fingers—weak and a bit thready, but it's there. 

 

Thank _God_.

 

“Get him on his side,” she orders—after a charged second Clint jolts into action, and they’re working together to roll Barney over, his halfway-conscious blue-tinged face seeming to stare straight through Natasha like he doesn’t know she’s there, and she fights the nausea swelling in her stomach at the thought that Barney might die today. 

 

His breathing improves, if only a little, and she knows it’s not enough. 

 

He needs medicine, but they’re trying to avoid a hospital if they can. 

 

_Fuck that_ , she thinks, _they need a hospital now_.

 

She’s opening her mouth to say so, to tell Clint they need to load him in the car and burn rubber getting him to the ER—but then she takes notice of a wide-eyed Pietro standing a couple paces behind her with an equally shocked Wanda at his side, and suddenly an idea is forming in her brain, an incredibly stupid and selfish one, but an idea nonetheless. 

 

An idea that might be their only shot. 

 

She turns on her heel to fix the platinum-haired boy with as much confidence as she can muster. “Pietro,” she urged. “I need you to do something for me. And keep in mind, you can say no if you need to—I know it’s asking a lot.”

 

Pietro looks rather disoriented, but he manages a shaky nod, his hazel eyes darting up to meet hers. “What do you need?”

 

“Anticoagulants—blood thinners. They’re gonna be at a hospital, and we can’t take him there. I need you to steal some. Do you understand?” 

 

Pietro’s eyes have widened with every word, but after a second he’s setting his jaw with newfound determination, giving her a sharp nod as his eyes spark a fluorescent blue. “What’s it called and what does it look like?”

 

“Heparin,” she rattles off, scarcely aware of the words she’s saying. “It should be in a small glass bottle with a metal lid; I need you to grab more than one. And a needle, if you can manage it.”

 

“Okay.” 

 

Before he can disappear, Wanda is placing a hand on her twin’s shoulder to halt him in place. “I can come with,” she says to both Pietro and Wanda, blue eyes flashing with conviction (which Natasha can’t help but find _very_ attractive). “Make sure no one finds us looking.” 

 

A thrill of fear runs through Natasha’s chest then at the prospect of Wanda putting herself in harm’s way, too, and she feels incredibly guilty and selfish that it’s so much worse than the pang of worry she felt when she’d asked Pietro to go himself.

 

But Pietro is agreeing with a bob of his head, supplementing his sister with a decisive: “We’re better together”—Natasha wants to smack him, even as she knows it’s an entirely irrational urge to have, because he’s right when he says that it’s safer that way; smarter. 

 

Swallowing down her worry, her desperation, she steps closer to Wanda, Barney’s labored wheezing fading steadily to the background. “Be careful,” she says—it’s quiet and short but she _means_ it, means it like she doubts she ever has before. 

 

Wanda tilts her head, gaze soft and filled with understanding, the kind of unconditional affection Natasha knows she’s never deserved but _hell_ if it doesn’t feel like the best thing she’s ever known, and _hell_ if she won’t let herself bask in it anyhow, because damn her but she’s selfish and she always has been. “I will,” Wanda says.

 

Then Wanda is stepping forward to place a gentle kiss on Natasha’s cheek—soon, _too_ soon, she’s pulling back with a tender smile that rips through Natasha like a bullet to the chest that she’d never seen coming, and Pietro is gathering her into his arms like he’s done it hundreds of times before (which he probably has, Natasha reasons) and they’re disappearing in a sizzling flash of cerulean light; as if in a trance, Natasha lifts a shaking hand to her cheek, the skin seeming to burn in the most pleasant of ways where the Sokovian girl had so delicately placed her lips, and for the first time in a long time, she prays. 

 

She prays she doesn’t have to lose Wanda today. 

 

She prays because _can’t_ lose Wanda today. 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's short, because i wanna do wanda's perspective for the next chapter, where she and pietro hit up the hospital. hope you liked:)


	27. preferred pronouns (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pietro and Wanda hit up the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love writing pietro and wanda's dynamic bahagahaha

In seconds, Pietro has zipped them over to the University of Vermont Medical Center, and she’s catching her breath as the high-pitched noise of wind whistling through her ears abruptly stop, stumbling against Pietro to regain her balance—and bless him, he’s wrapping a strong arm around her waist before she can ask, carefully steadying her without a word. 

 

Once her head stops spinning, she looks around in wonder, taking in their surroundings: she sees that her twin has hidden them both in a cluster of autumnal trees just out front before the main building, its clear glass walls and vibrant lighting within revealing various levels of bustling activity inside the building, countless people in white coats and suits and scrubs milling this way and that on each level.

 

“We need a keycard to get access to the medication,” she mumbles under her breath as she watches people coming in and out of the structure illuminated by yellowy-amber lights shining brightly in the night, already building an entry strategy in her head. “And hospital scrubs for me to blend in, since I can’t just disappear on them while you look for the blood thinners.”

 

She feels Pietro nodding beside her, both their gazes fixed upon the crowded center. “Where will the medication room be?”

 

At that, she snorts. “Do I look like a doctor to you?”

 

Pietro rolls his eyes. “Very helpful.”

 

“Well, how would _I_ know?"

 

Pietro’s silent for a moment. “Then how are we going to find it?”

 

_Shit_. Wanda furrows her brow. “Kidnap a doctor? Read his mind?”

 

“Interesting of you to assume it would be a man.”

 

“Fine. Read his or _her_ mind.”

 

He pouts. “What if they’re non-binary?”

 

“ _Fine_. Read _their_ mind,” she manages through gritted teeth. "Happy?”

 

Pietro grins. “As a peach.”

 

“That’s not the expression.”

 

“Isn’t it?”

 

“I _really_ don’t think it is.”

 

“Are you sure?"

 

“C’mon,” Wanda says with a defeated sigh. "Let’s do this fast: keycard, scrubs, interrogation, medicine room.”

 

“Yes, Ma’am.”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

It’s a blur of color, of white and blinding light and bleary faces, but in under 10 seconds, they’re stopping in a darkened room (Pietro gaining access via a standard white hospital ID bordered with forest green, that dubs him a short and bespectacled Asian-looking man named ‘Jack Chang, PhD.’) most likely used for routine exams, Wanda thinks as she eyes all the equipment cluttering the modest room.

 

It should be easy to get her hands on hospital scrubs, if Pietro hadn’t already grabbed her a pair on the way over, she thinks.

 

Her attention is rather quickly diverted, though, by the next part of their plan, a frizzy chestnut-brown-haired female doctor—female- _presenting_ doctor, she begrudgingly corrects herself, Pietro’s earlier protests echoing in her brain—who is now stumbling around the room on shaky legs like a baby doe, by all accounts looking rather lost in her teal-green scrubs and stark white lab coat.

 

Right. The kidnapping part. 

 

She’d forgotten about that, honestly.

 

Briefly glancing at the woman’s hospital ID clipped to the hem of her scrubs, she darts her gaze up to meet Dr. Angela Martinez, MD., her chocolate brown eyes filled with fear as she asks, “W-Who are you?”

 

Not quite sure how to respond to that, Wanda catches Pietro’s eye instead over Dr. Martinez’s shoulder. “You were right about the woman part.”

 

Pietro just crosses his arms, looking vaguely indignant even as he circles around the doctor to stand at Wanda’s side. “Did you even ask about preferred pronouns?”

 

“ _You’re_ the one who grabbed her in the middle of her shift,” she hisses, rolling her eyes when he just shrugs in response. Fighting the urge to heave a long and heavy sigh, she turns her gaze back to Dr. Martinez. “What are your preferred pronouns?”

 

Dr. Martinez, for her (or his, or their) part, just looks rather flummoxed by the question, gaze darting back and forth between the twins at a startlingly fast pace. “W-What?”

 

“Apologies for my sister’s bluntness,” Pietro offers graciously, and Wanda has the sudden urge to smack him. “She means to ask: do you identify as male, female, or neither? We want to use your preferred pronouns.”

 

Dr. Martinez, if at all possible, manages to look even more at a loss—though to her (or his, or their) credit, she (or he, or they) recovers rather quickly, blinking wide brown eyes rapidly, like she (or he, or they) can’t quite believe this is happening. (Wanda doesn’t really blame her.) “I-I’m a woman,” she stammers. 

 

“Lovely,” Wanda announces, before turning to Pietro with an unamused gaze. “Now, are there any more quests for social justice you wish to embark upon while we’re here?”

 

Pietro’s grin just widens. “No, Ma'am.”

 

“I told you not to call me that.” 

 

“In many countries, it’s viewed as a title of great respect.”

 

“For old people.”

 

“For _elders_.”

 

“Pietro, we’re the same goddamned _age_ —“

 

“Um,” says Dr. Martinez then, and quite rapidly both siblings are turning from their tangential debate to eye her. “Can I, like, go now?” Her accent is very distinctly American, Wanda notes—almost Valley Girl (or, at least, that’s what she’s heard it’s called). 

 

“In a second.” Wanda sighs. “Where is the medicine room? We need blood thinners.”

 

“Y’all don’t look like doctors to me. Also, where’s that accent from?”

 

Wanda’s eyes narrow. “None of your b—"

 

“Sokovia!” Pietro pipes up happily at the same time, oblivious to the glare Wanda immediately sends his way. 

 

“That’s cool,” Dr. Martinez says with a nod, making the pretty dangly crystals attached to her ears bob up and down with a slight shimmer in the scant lighting. 

 

“Can I ask,” Pietro begins, even as Wanda practically begs him with pleading eyes to stop, “I’ve only ever seen Martinez as a Hispanic last name… but you, you are—"

 

“Black?” the doctor lady interrupts, looking rather amused all of a sudden.

 

Pietro’s cheeks flush in response, and Wanda feels hers do the same. “Yes.”

 

Dr. Martinez’s lips quirk. “I married a Cuban immigrant.”

 

“Oh!” Pietro says, eyes lighting up. “Your husband is very brave.”

 

“Wife, actually,” she responds, her smirk widening as Pietro’s eyes bulge. 

 

Wanda nudges her twin, a shit-eating grin on her face. “ _Now_ who’s the insensitive one?”

 

“Uh—I—Well—Not that—"

 

“Excuse my brother,” Wanda smoothly interrupts, enjoying his embarrassment far too much not to take advantage—then, she turns back to the doctor. “Now, where is the medicine room?”

 

Dr. Martinez scoffs. “Nice try, kid. Only doctors are allowed in there. Now, can I leave?”

 

Pietro looks as if he wants to argue but Wanda doesn’t let him, saying, “Yes, Dr. Martinez, thank you” before he can get a word out. 

 

“Uh-huh,” she hums, eyeing them suspiciously before turning on her heel to exit. “Grab me like that again and I’ll kick both your asses,” she calls over her shoulder, before opening the door and disappearing through the bright yellowy light of the doorway.

 

Pietro waits until the door closes behind the doctor, the room bathed again in darkness before he’s turning to Wanda with a stern expression, finally seeming to have recovered his verbal capabilities. “Why did you do that? She didn’t tell us anything!”

 

Wanda rolls her eyes. “Mind reading, you dolt.”

 

“‘Dolt’?”

 

“It’s an American insult.” 

 

“Not a very good one.”

 

“Shut it. Let me change into some scrubs, and then we’ll go find some heparin."

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

Seconds later, Pietro has zipped around various floors of the hospital to deposit himself and Wanda in one of the many well-secured areas for hospital-grade medicine, the large space made to feel rather cramped by rows upon rows of metal-and-glass cabinets each containing a plethora of different medications (many of which Wanda hasn’t the faintest clue how to pronounce)—luckily for them, though, the room was dark and vacant, at least for the moment. 

 

“Pietro, can you see the heparin?” Wanda asks quietly.

 

_Whoosh!_ A flash of blue illuminates the space, her twin quickly disappearing amidst the countless rows of ostentaniously-named pharmaceuticals—after a second or two, she loses track of him entirely. 

 

After another second, she starts to get antsy, wondering w—

 

_Whoosh!_ He’s suddenly back with a gust of wind strong enough to make her eyes water for a brief moment. He’s also empty-handed, she notices with a pang of disappointment, his windswept silvery hair sticking out every which way upon his scalp.

 

“Nothing?” she whispers the question, her heart sinking. 

 

“It’s too dark. I can’t read the labels.”

 

_Oh, thank God_. 

 

“Should we turn on the lights?”

 

Pietro bites his lip. “Do you think that would attract attention?”

 

_Shit_. “Maybe,” she admits, remembering Natasha’s words ( _“Be careful,”_ she’d said—so gently and shyly, almost like a goodbye; Wanda will die before she lets that happen) as she forces herself to think of an alternate solution—after a second or two, an idea hits her. “Let’s go row by row. I’ll light each row while you look.”

 

At that, her twin nods, though there’s a hint of something like nervousness shining in his darkened hazel irises—she doesn’t blame him, though; she’s sure the same uncertainty is reflected quite plainly on her own features... But they need to do this. For Clint and the man barely hanging onto life in his house. For _Natasha_.

 

“This row first,” she says with as much tenacity as she can muster, raising a tentative hand and allowing a thin elongated stream of reddish light to stretch along the entirety of the darkened row (a good 20 feet or so), the bright crimson reflecting weakly off the neat white tiling on the floor—then, she gives Pietro a sharp nod. “Go.”

 

He does. _Whoosh!_ The cabinets are rapidly awash with conflicting scarlet and aquamarine luminescence, and briefly Wanda worries that they’re causing too much of a spectacle—before she can think further on that, Pietro is running back to her with another _whoosh!_

 

Again, he’s back empty-handed.

 

She drops her arm, allowing the oscillating rod of carmine-red energy to dissipate. “Not here?”

 

He shakes his head. 

 

“Next one,” she murmurs with a sigh, the two of them wordlessly walking down to the next column (which looks exactly like the first). Reaching out both hands, she materializes another thick glowing string of her magic, turning slightly from her task to give her twin another determined nod. “Again.”

 

_Whoosh!_ He’s gone, his form a fleeting blaze of electric blue spanning up and down the aisle, zig-zagging seemingly at random—then he’s flaring brighter in one spot just three-fourths of the way down the row, stopping for a full second as his aura of energy flickers unusually. _That’s strange_. She’s opening her mouth to call for him, to question exactly what was happening when— _Crash!_ —the vaguely person-shaped figure radiating azure (aka her twin) is jerking violently into the cabinets behind him, his sea-blue image appearing to almost be _glitching_ as he stumbles into another cabinet with yet another _Smash!_

 

Oh _crap_. 

 

She winces to herself as both cabinets steadily tilt off balance with a creaking noise, and another _Crash!_ when they hit the next row of storage units, and the next, and the next, medicine and shattering glass falling with deafening noises as Wanda watches with a single hand clapped over her mouth, horror etched into every inch of her expression. 

 

_Crash! Crash! Smash!_

 

After a second (Thank _God_ ) even while the horrible sounds of destruction continue, her twin’s bluish light is fading, leaving him crumpled onto the floor on hands and knees, trembling with… fear? Pain? Wanda isn’t sure, and it’s scaring the ever-living shit out of her. 

 

“Pietro,” she hisses as she comes closer, flinching as another _Smash!_ reverberates around the space. “You _need_ to get up,” she pleads when she reaches him, placing a hand on his shuddering shoulder, vaguely hearing the sudden commotion of worried chatter and speculation from the hospital staff outside even over the smashing sounds of cabinets tipping and medicine bottles fracturing—they don’t have much time. 

 

“Wanda,” he mumbles,his voice heart-wrenchingly weak; dazedly, she takes notice of the three miniature glass bottles clenched tightly in his white-knuckled grip. “Got the medicine.” Her heartbeat is reaching a worrying tempo as she watches her twin almost spasming on the floor, the waves of his fear and discomfort hitting her like crushing blows to the chest. 

 

And underneath it all, there's something familiar as his emotions merge with her own… something they’d only known in Sokovia, with the snake people. 

 

Something fucking _terrifying_ , something that chills her to the bone in a way that nothing else ever could. 

 

She tells herself she’s just being paranoid.

 

She has to, because she doesn’t know what the _hell_ to do if it turns out she isn't. 

 

More panicked voices filtering in from the hallway tear her instantly from her thoughts, and she’s stroking the trembling muscled arm of her distraught twin, desperate to get him well enough to leave, as in, _right now_. “Pietro, what _happened?_ “

 

With a single shaking hand (his other still gripping the medicine) he’s pointing to the lowest shelf of the metal cabinets (thankfully the row he _hadn’t_ knocked to the ground), and she’s squinting in the dark (her magic long since having dissolved amidst the staggering worry she felt for Pietro)—there’s a box sitting there, with a circular grey logo stamped on its front of—

 

Oh no. 

 

Oh _no_.

 

It’s the snake people, their mark, their _brand_ : the skull with eight protruding tentacles held menacingly up on either side. 

 

She can’t breathe. 

 

She can’t _breathe_.

 

Everything fades in the presence of her fear, her lungs collapsing in on themselves even as she heaves desperately for air; she can barely feel herself leaning against her twin on the floor of the darkened aisle, because suddenly she can’t think, she can’t breathe, she can’t do _anything_ , because they’re _here_ , the snake people are _here_ and she was foolish, _so_ foolish to think she could ever escape them, but she hoped anyways, she _hoped_ and now—

 

There’s the sound of the door being wrenched open, and—“SECURITY!” a gruff voice yells as a Kevlar-vested man enters the room, pistol in hand (with a bright LED flashlight attached) aimed expertly this way and that in his militarily-efficient scan of the room; but Wanda still can’t _breathe_ and all of a sudden there’s a _gun_ and she’s sure it’s the snake people, sure they’ve finally come back for her and Pietro, and maybe a couple years ago she didn’t care about dying but she cares now, cares so goddamned much and she doesn’t want to die today, doesn’t want to die without telling Natasha she’s beautiful and that she just might be falling in love with her and that she never has to be alone again, not so long as Wanda can help it because _dammit_ she doesn’t want Natasha to think she hasn’t been all-in from the beginning because she has, she _has_ , and Wanda just needs her to know that before she goes. 

 

She doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s far too late, until the terror and fear and _anger_ boiling beneath her skin is coming out in terrifying hues of lurid crimson, until she’s lashing out with raw bloodied emotion and blinding red energy—there’s a cry of pain from the guard as her magic slashes easily through the Kevlar, and _Boom! Boom! Boom!_ three stuttering shots from his gun when he falls, numerous sounds of shattering glass accompanying every bullet. 

 

And still, the anger is there, and Wanda thinks it just might consume her because she can’t fucking _breathe_ , not when scalpels and cattle prods and rivulets of her own burgundy-red blood are flashing vividly beneath her eyelids, morphing themselves into reality even as she screams for it stop. 

 

She can scarcely feel Pietro as he stumbles to his feet beside her, his urgent words falling on hopelessly deaf ears, the room bathed in luminous scarlet-red light—God, it’s like salvation and damnation all in one, the celestial beginning and the devastating end, like finally the culmination of all days has come to take her and Pietro and everyone else from this world and it’s beautiful, it’s fucking _beautiful_ because she’s so goddamned _tired_ of fighting, of running and being scared and _hiding_ and—

 

_Whoosh!_

 

They’re gone. 

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧


	28. i'm not a fuCKing doctor pt. 2 (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get the heparin for Barney, but the twins come back and they're... off. 
> 
> Natasha's under a lot of stress, understandably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might take me a little bit longer than usual to write out the next bit, but it's in the works!:)

Things aren’t going well back with Natasha and Clint: Barney is still on his side, his lips turning a more worrying shade of blue by the second, breaths coming strained and weak.

 

What’s more, Clint has long since given up on not crying—wet tears tracing both his cheeks, tears he doesn’t bother trying to wipe away as he grips his brother’s hand tightly in his own, not with Barney barely hanging onto life and a last-ditch resort in the works that has absolutely no guarantee for success. 

 

But Clint is strong—he always had been.

 

She breathes an internal sigh of relief when he started talking—keeping his thoughts moving, engaging in a different conversation, keeping himself afloat amidst the unadulterated personal devastation threatening to pull him under.

 

(He’s grown so much from the little boy she met being pushed around on the playground all those years ago.)

 

“The kid’s fast,” he says with a sniffle, an unspoken question in his words.

 

“Yeah,” Natasha agrees, wiping at the blood smeared around Barney’s mouth absentmindedly. “They’ve had a rough go of it.”

 

Clint smiles but it’s empty, his bloodshot blue eyes still firmly on his gasping brother. “I guess they can join the club, huh?”

 

Natasha’s lips quirk. “Yeah. Maybe.”

 

They’re both silent for a moment. “If he’s fast, what’s Wanda’s deal?”

 

“Magic.”

 

“Bullshit."

 

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Well, she can move things with her mind, and she can tell what people are thinking. What else do you call that?”

 

“So, your girlfriend’s a witch.”

 

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“We’re friends.”

 

“But why not more than that?"

 

“It doesn’t matter.”

 

Clint’s brow furrows. “Yes, it does. She likes you, and you like her.”

 

Natasha is quiet for a long moment. “The timing isn’t good.”

 

“Is it ever?”

 

“You don’t understand.”

 

“Then help me understand,” Clint insisted, his blue eyes now off his brother and boring unflinchingly into her. “I know something’s been happening with you. Something bad. Talk to me, Tash.”

 

Natasha bites her lip, her eyes darting down to a wheezing Barney and eventually back up to an earnest Clint. _Fuck it_. “Alexei’s back,” she mumbles, her tone suppressed and shaky.

 

“What?” Clint breathes out, eyes wide. 

 

“H—"

 

_Whoosh!_

 

Immediately, both Clint and Natasha whirl their heads around to see a bloodied Pietro and Wanda stumbling into the space, the bluish aura around Pietro flickering weakly as it fades.

 

_Shit_. Wanda is dressed in standard teal-green hospital scrubs, while Pietro still in his jeans and all-black windbreaker with the light-grey long-sleeved shirt peeking from beneath it, Wanda’s clothes from earlier (including Natasha’s jacket) clutched in one trembling hand, three bottles of medicine and a syringe clutched in the other—Wanda is bleeding from a fairly deep-looking cut above her right eye, her scrubs smeared in various places with blood; Pietro looks about the same, blood leaking through his grey athletic wear at the collarbone, his entire body shuddering violently.

 

(Natasha had never been all that big on protective instinct, but right now she wants to stitch them up and take them as far away from here as she can, where they’ll never have to deal with Natasha and Clint’s absolute shitshow of a life. 

 

God, she feels horrible—this is all her fault.)

 

“Wanda, what the hell happened?” she’s asking before she can think, her heart clenching at the red-stained shards of glass protruding from her scrub-clad shoulder.

 

Wanda stumbles, verbally unresponsive, and Natasha is lunging forward to snake an arm around her waist and catch her before she falls—with her other hand, she grips Pietro’s wrist when he sways on his feet, unwilling to allow either of them to collapse.

 

“Clint,” she calls. “Chairs.”

 

There are scraping sounds and Clint’s panicked footsteps intermingling with Barney’s labored exhales, but soon enough he’s sliding two chairs over, and with Clint’s assistance she’s helping both twins to slump on either seat, their eyes unfocused and empty. 

 

“Wanda, please, what happened?” She’s practically begging now, but she doesn’t care because she can’t handle the vacant look in Wanda’s eyes, the terrified one in Pietro’s, the blood staining the girl's delicate pale skin. 

 

“We got the medicine,” Wanda says eventually, her voice weak and throaty—though there’s a spark of awareness in her eyes, like she’s coming back to reality. 

 

Natasha bites her lip, feeling so ridiculously _helpless_ , her fear curling in her gut and making her positively nauseous. “That’s not what I aske—“

 

“Tash!” Clint practically yells from behind her, and _Shit_ , she turns around quickly even though she’s loathe to let Wanda out of her sight for even a second.

 

He’s crouched over Barney’s form on the table and— _Shit_ , Barney isn’t moving. Or wheezing.

 

“He isn’t breathing,” Clint sobs, and Natasha knows her talk with Wanda will have to come later, because, God _Dammit_. 

 

Quickly, she snatches the syringe and medicine from Pietro’s grip, reading the label with hazy eyesight even as she can _hear_ Clint spiraling before her.

 

“Okay, we need to inject it,” she says shakily, poking the syringe through the lid and withdrawing the standard dose for Barney’s approximate bodyweight (0.8 IU/mL)—she goes a little under, hitting about 0.76 on the syringe, but she figures that that’s probably for the best (since she doesn’t actually know what the _fuck_ she’s doing). 

 

“Um, where do we inject it?” Clint asks then, panic lacing every word. 

 

_Shit_. “I’m not sure.”

 

“What do you _mean_ you’re not sure?”

 

“I mean, I’m not a _fucking_ doctor, Clint!”

 

“I don’t care I don’t _CARE_ ,” he wails. “I need you to _DO_ something!”

 

She wants to yell back, but she can’t—she knows it’ll be the farthest thing from productive; instead, she forces herself to think—respiratory system, veins and arteries… Pulmonary vein? Probably, but the needle isn't big enough… 

 

Radial artery? Maybe?

 

It’d have to do. 

 

“NATASHA!” Clint screams, and—

 

“Shut _up_ , Clint, I need to focus,” she snaps back, and then she’s taking Barney’s left arm—luckily, she can see his bluish veins beneath the pale sweat-soaked skin, and before she can talk herself out of it she’s jamming the needle into the radial artery at the crease of his elbow, injecting the heparin as slowly as her spasmodic hands can manage. “Fuck,” she curses under her breath, extracting the needle carefully, unable to drown out the desperate pleading noises Clint’s making at his motionless brother—then she’s moving over to the nearly catatonic pair of twins, working deftly to extract the shards of glass from their bloodied skin and wincing with every pained sound they let out; all they can do now is wait. 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

10 minutes later, Barney’s breathing resumes a labored but steady pace. 

 

Clint’s still sobbing, but his tears quickly turn joyous, relieved. 

 

Natasha is, too, obviously, but then she’s turning back to Wanda, who’s passed out in her seat along with Pietro, who’s well on his way to joining her—she sighs, but she’s glad they’re allowing themselves to rest; heaven knows they need it. 

 

She rouses Pietro (though she feels ridiculously guilty as she does), whispering to guide him over to the couch in the living room, which he collapses on gratefully (there’ll be bloodstains on the sofa in the morning, but she supposes that’s a problem for later)—next, she’s gathering Wanda carefully in her arms (the girl doesn’t wake, which Natasha is grateful for) and carrying her carefully over to join Pietro on the adjacent couch, depositing her as gently as she can manage. 

 

(And maybe she plants a kiss on Wanda’s forehead, before turning to do the same for Pietro—but whatever, okay?

 

It’s not like anyone can prove it.)

 

Next, she’s telling Clint to get some rest—thankfully, he obeys without raising an argument (though not before checking Barney’s pulse and breathing for the millionth time), stumbling disjointedly down the hallway and into his room without a word. 

 

As for Natasha, she won’t be able to sleep—not without the cuffs. She knows that.

 

(A part of her is scared, because she’s not sure she’s going to be able to keep herself awake tonight—but dammit, she’s going to try anyhow.

 

She knows the consequences if she can’t.)

 

So, she pulls a half-full bottle of vodka from the freezer (Clint and Barney always stocked up just for her; they both preferred beer), hopping up onto the counter as she tags a long gulp.

 

Idly, she strains her ears for the sounds of Wanda and Pietro—she can hear their deep breathing filtering from the living room—and the faint snores of Clint down the hall. 

 

_Safe_ , she tells herself. _They’re safe_.

 

(She does her best to ignore the voice in her head that adds _‘For now.’_ )

 

She heaves another quiet sigh, downing another gulp—she barely feels it burning a trail down her throat, barely registers the warmth blooming in her chest as a result. 

 

(It feels empty, somehow—fake.

 

She doesn’t know what to do about that.)

 

It’s going to be a long night. 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bahaghaagaaha i really liked bringing the 'i'm not a fucking doctor' line back i'm not sure why i just imagine it being kind of funny


	29. bad habits (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha gets drunk, and sad, and messy... but Wanda's there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> made this one longer... hope you like!

It’s something like 2am, and the darkened world around her is spinning. She likes that, she decides.

 

It doesn’t quite make sense, of course (nothing really does), but it means she’s awake, that she hasn’t fallen victim to sleep quite yet, and that’s more than enough for her.

 

Alexei messaged about an hour ago; more pictures (two this time, because Natasha supposed he was feeling generous) of a younger and utterly miserable-looking Natasha who can’t be more than 12 sprawled unconscious upon the same fucking mattress in the same fucking basement she sees every night in her dreams. She’s naked in both of them.

 

(Right after, she’d just barely made it to the kitchen sink before emptying the contents of her stomach as quietly as she could manage into the metal basin—mostly vodka at that point, so it was fairly short-lived. 

 

It still hurt.

 

But throwing up also meant the pleasant dizzy feeling in her head went away, and she couldn’t have that. 

 

Clambering back up onto the counter, she drank more after that. A lot more.)

 

Her tears have long since dried, which she supposes she should be thankful for—but her chest feels empty, hollow, and no matter how many gulps of burning vodka she tags, that feeling deep within her bones doesn’t change. 

 

It’s frustrating; _infuriating_ , really. 

 

What’s worse is she doesn’t even have the energy to be well and truly infuriated about it all in the first place—the anger is stomping in her chest, screaming in her head, but the exhaustion is bigger than all of it somehow, and that juxtaposition is making everything so much fucking worse; she doesn’t know what the _hell_ she’s meant to do.

 

She thinks she might be shattering—and honestly, her only real coherent thought about it is: _It’s about goddamned time_.

 

It gets worse somehow (which she hadn’t originally thought was even possible) when she’s swallowing down the last of the vodka, because she’s too coherent to stop now, too far from the edge of blacking out and dying, too firmly on the safer side of things that she thinks she’ll go mad if she doesn’t fix it. 

 

(She supposes it’s probably ironic that her idea of ‘fixing’ things is to purposefully make them worse; then again, it’s really nothing new, as far as she’s concerned.)

 

Careful not to stumble (as careful as a well-on-her-way-to-drunk Natasha can be) and risk waking the other inhabitants of the house, she snatches her keys off the countertop, then pads across the hardwood flooring—seconds later, she’s opening the front door (which creaks at an unreasonably loud volume that makes her wince) and stumbling out onto the porch, barely remembering to close the door behind her. 

 

It’s dark outside—a fact that really shouldn’t shock Natasha, but it does; there’s something almost surreal about the near pitch-blackness of it all, the yellowy light of the street lamps flickering weakly over the residential road, the blessed _silence_ permeating every surrounding molecule of the atmosphere. 

 

What’s more, it’s absolutely _freezing_ , and Natasha really didn’t plan this out very well, because she’s dressed only in Clint's 8th-grade graduation tee (more of a crop top, really) and a pair of tight black spandex (phone tucked into the waistband), her feet bare against the freezing cement; it grounds her in a way, though—the pain helps, somehow. Ultimately, she decides she doesn’t mind it all that much.

 

Then she’s hitting the buttons on her keys more or less at random (though by some divine stroke of luck she never clumsily hits the alarm button, which would not only a. shatter her eardrums, but also b. serve to make a very shitty night-slash-morning all the more shitty, which is something Natasha really doesn’t think she can handle right now)—and somehow, she makes it to her car, the trunk ajar, thanking _God_ when she spots the two bottles of vodka tucked haphazardly within the boot. 

 

Almost instantly, she’s grabbing one and unscrewing the lid, sighing to herself with relief when she pulls the bottle to her lips for a long gulp—it burns, but it’s exactly what she needs, and she relishes in it.

 

She thinks she’s imagining things when she hears someone calling her name, thinks that maybe she’s finally gone too far, that maybe this is what it feels like to dance with death; she leans further into it than she should, like an old friend she’s been missing, like a piece of herself that left years ago and is only just now coming back to take her away.

 

Her senses are too dull to be afraid when the voice gets closer, when they're just behind Natasha and she still won't turn around, when the mystery person has every opportunity to kill her for good this time because she refuses to run (if she’s being perfectly honest with herself, her self-preservation instincts have long since gone).

 

Then there’s a hand on her shoulder, an unsolicited touch that would most certainly make her flinch violently if she were sober, but she’s not and it’s _glorious_ and she doesn’t move under the unknown presence because she just doesn’t fucking _care_ that it means she might die tonight.

 

“Natasha,” the voice says again—female, Natasha realizes dazedly. Delicate. 

 

It almost sounds like… like _Wanda_ , even as Natasha _knows_ that that’s bullshit because Wanda’s sleeping inside and Natasha’s drunk out here, and Natasha’s alone like she always has been.

 

It’s a trick, she thinks. It has to be. 

 

“Alexei?” she manages to slur, and the silence is a deadly confirmation of her guess, as far as she’s concerned. “Please don’t hurt them. Just take me. Please?” she’s begging incoherently now and she can’t _see_ , the dizziness in her skull increasing tenfold, but she needs to tell Alexei that she’s not gonna fight anymore—needs Alexei to leave Clint and Pietro and _Wanda_ alone, because Natasha doesn’t think she’ll ever be at peace if she doesn’t make them safe before she goes. 

 

“I won’t fight, I promise, okay? No more fighting, I’ll be so _so_ good I just—I just—I’ve never asked for anything from you, you know? This is all I want.” She can’t hear anymore; there’s only a shrill ringing in her eardrums, but she doesn’t care—she needs to say her piece. 

 

"I love Clint more than anything, and I think I’m starting to love Wanda—" she thinks she hears the person inhale sharply at that, but she can’t be sure ( _and why would he? That doesn’t make sense…_ ), "and Pietro’s like the brother I never had and if I can’t protect them I think I’ll go crazy. You won’t want me anymore if I go crazy, right? Please, Alexei. I’ll spend the rest of my life being yours; I just want this one thing. It’s all I’m ever gonna ask, okay? I think I love her… _Please_ … ” 

 

She tries to stay conscious after that, but she can’t—too much darkness, black spots in her blurred vision, fear crawling in her throat; a second later, everything goes black.

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

She wakes in a sweat-drenched panic, hands feeling desperately (drunkenly) around for the cuffs, her breathing erratic and uncontrolled—she can’t find them she can’t find them they’re not _here_ and she’s never felt so lost and she doesn’t know where the _hell_ she is and—

 

“Natasha?” a voice comes, and Natasha’s still drunk but this time she’s _sure_ it’s Wanda—a second later she’s sitting bolt upright and whirling around (she’s on a mattress, she realizes— _Barney’s_ mattress) to see Wanda’s pale worried face in the dark and—

 

“Wanda?” Natasha manages, and her voice is hoarse, _so_ hoarse, but it’s there, and she’s terribly confused, but Wanda just nods like Natasha did something right, nods like it’s all going to be okay (which scares Natasha more than anything, because she knows that has to be a lie).

 

“What do you need?” she whispers then, and Natasha’s struck with a blinding wave of confusion, because, _What?_

 

“Huh?”

 

She thinks she hears Wanda let out a small sigh. “Do you need anything, Natasha?” she questions gently. “I think you were having a nightmare.”

 

“Cuffs,” Natasha says before she can stop herself, because her head hurts something awful and she’s failing at trying to keep her memories at bay and Alexei’s never going to leave her alone, she _knows_ that, and she’s not sure if it’s selfish that she hasn’t just gone and killed herself by now, because what good does it do that she’s still here? 

 

What good does that do if she’s putting everyone she loves in danger just because she’s more scared of dying than she’d like to admit?

 

Wanda scoots closer, and Natasha’s glad her senses are dulled enough not to react adversely; instead, she takes a sort of comfort in the closeness, because it just might be the best thing she’s felt in a long while. “What’s that? I don’t understand.”

 

“Handcuffs,” Natasha slurs, and she doesn’t care that she’s telling Wanda her secret, doesn’t care doesn’t _care_ because she needs them right now, needs them so badly or she’s sure she’s going to burst. “I need my handcuffs.”

 

Wanda’s thigh tenses against hers. “What?” The other girl’s voice is breathy now, almost scared—Natasha doesn’t have _time_ for that, because she’s scared too, dammit (not to mention drunk), and she needs her cuffs _now_.

 

“I need ‘em on my wrist.” She holds up her scabbed over wrist in the scant moonlight, then clumsily rips off her bracelets and throws them somewhere into the darkness, barely aware of Wanda’s loud gasp in response to her unceremonious reveal. “Like the basement, okay? I need ‘em or my brain gets really really mean.”

 

“‘The basement’?”

 

Natasha scrunches her nose, her eyelids screwed shut as she rubs at her aching head—she’s too drunk for this, too drained, too _hurt_. “They cuffed me in t’basement, so I couldn’t get 'way, ‘cause Daddy and his friends thought I was pretty and they got mad if they couldn’t 'ave me, ‘kay?”

 

Wanda doesn’t respond, and Natasha’s desperation only grows. 

 

“Please, Wanda, I need ‘em. I can’t sleep, m’kay? I _need_ ‘em.”

 

“We’re in Clint’s house, Natasha,” Wanda says after a long moment, her voice weak and trembling like she's crying. (Natasha doesn’t understand why she would be crying.) “I don’t think he has any.”

 

“Barney has ‘em,” Natasha supplies with a quiet yawn. “In ‘te bedside ‘able, for ‘is girlfriend.”

 

Wanda hesitates briefly, but a second later Natasha can hear her digging through the nightstand, opening either drawer—eventually, she leans back fully onto the bed with a glinting pair of unlocked handcuffs, and Natasha’s thudding heartbeat begins to calm in her chest as she lies back into the fluffy mattress. 

 

“Thank 'ou,” she nearly sobs, and Wanda just looks unsure, like she’s concerned—which Natasha doesn’t understand, because Wanda is saving her right now; why doesn’t she see that?

 

Either way, her head is pounding and the room is still shuddering in her periphery, and she knows she needs sleep, _now_. “‘lease,” she begs, nodding shallowly up to the metal slats of the headboard, her bruised wrist pressed weakly against its cold surface—she’s far too weak to do it herself right now. 

 

“Okay,” Wanda murmurs, more to herself than anything else; suddenly, she’s leaning over Natasha in the bed (she smells like cinnamon and peaches, Natasha thinks with a thrill), and delicately ( _too_ delicately) securing one cuff around Natasha’s wrist, the other around the headboard. 

 

“'oo loose,” Natasha complains after a moment, knowing she could slip out of it in the middle of the night if the nightmares got bad enough. 

 

Wanda’s silent for a second. “I don’t want to hurt you, Natasha.” 

 

She's definitely crying, Natasha realizes. “Wand'a?”

 

“Yes, Natasha?” Wanda replies with an audible sniffle. 

 

“Why ‘ou cryin’?"

 

“I’m just… ” Wanda trails off and pauses for a moment, her breaths ragged in the night. “I’m angry at the people who did this to you. And sad.”

 

Natasha bites her lip, then manages to tighten the cuff herself with her other hand, refusing to stop until it’s biting painfully into her damaged skin and she’s sure she’s bleeding again. 

 

The whole endeavor takes about a second or two; after, she’s looking intently at Wanda in the moonlight, trying to understand with her sluggish brain just what exactly is happening, and how she can help. 

 

(She doesn’t want Wanda to cry. Wanda shouldn’t _ever_ be crying.)

 

“‘M sorry.”

 

Wanda chuckles faintly at that, but it’s muffled by her tears. “Why are you sorry, Natasha?”

 

“Made ‘ou sad.” 

 

Wanda doesn’t respond for a good ten seconds. “Don’t apologize for that,” she replies eventually, her voice quieter than a whisper. 

 

Natasha frowns at the defeated note in her tone, pouting her lips with thoughtful concentration, running groggily through all the ways she can help—then, she has an idea. “Wan’ me to make ‘ou feel better?”

 

Wanda looks even more conflicted in the scant moonlight in response to that, both brows furrowed over wet cheeks. “What do you mean, Natasha?” 

 

“Wanna 'ave sex?”

 

Wanda chokes on nothing, tear-filled blue eyes wide with shock and horror—after a minute or two, she recovers as Natasha watches with a curious gaze. “ _Please_ stop asking me that.”

 

Natasha tilts her head against the pillows. “‘ou _don’t_ wanna have sex?”

 

“Do _you?_ “

 

Natasha scrunches her nose. “I aske' first.”

 

Wanda sighs heavily, the tear tracks on her cheeks glistening beautifully in the moonlight. “You’re drunk, Natasha.”

 

“So? We cn’ still do stuff, if ‘ou wan’.”

 

Wanda just stares down at her with an unreadable expression for a very long time. 

 

(It makes Natasha’s head hurt.)

 

Natasha’s dangling on the edge of consciousness by the time Wanda speaks again: “Go to sleep, Tash,” she says.

 

Natasha does. 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

Natasha wakes with a pounding headache, squinting against the harsh unobstructed beams of morning sunlight filtering through Barney’s generous rectangular window above the bed—there’s a warm body next to her, she realizes, and immediately she curses herself for… well, for _what_ she doesn’t quite know, because as hard as she tries, she can’t remember the first thing about last night. 

 

Her brain relaxes the tiniest bit when she tilts herself to the side and sees none other than Wanda dozing peacefully in the sheets next to her, curled cutely against the wall to face Natasha—she looks _radiant_ , Natasha’s weary brain thinks, still in the hospital scrub pant bottoms from yesterday along with Natasha’s Россия hoodie zipped only halfway and bunched-up adorably on her slender form. 

 

(Plus, she’s letting out little involuntary mewls on every exhale—not quite snoring, but Natasha thinks it’s probably the most precious thing she’s ever seen.)

 

Turning her body slightly the other way to eye the digital clock on the bedside table, she notices two more things: one, it’s 6:04am (otherwise known as _really_ fucking early); two, she’s handcuffed to a bed that isn’t hers. 

 

_Shit_.

 

Oh, and this, too: She’s handcuffed to a bed that has _Wanda_ in it. 

 

_Double shit_. 

 

Careful not to disrupt the sleeping girl beside her, she shifts to eye her surroundings, looking desperately for the handcuff key—she needs to get out of these, like, _now_. 

 

She uses her free hand to carefully slide the first and thinnest of the wooden drawers (there are three total) in Barney’s nightstand open, wincing at the rumbling noise it makes—she wrinkles her nose as she observes its meager contents: Trojan condoms, Axe body spray, used-up Juul pod cartridges. 

 

No handcuff key. 

 

“Fuck me,” she curses quietly, her voice gravelly and hoarse. 

 

Reluctantly, she opens the next drawer (which is at least twice as large as the first): dirty lacrosse balls, _more_ condoms, a sizable bottle of lube, a worn old archery armguard, and the 5th installment of the Harry Potter series.

 

She sighs quietly.

 

Sending up a silent prayer, she opens up the last drawer (same size as the second) to find: a high school varsity sports award plaque mounted on a wooden panel, Barney's old Tesseract yearbook, _more_ lube, a pocket knife, and a roll of redneck-camo duct tape. 

 

“ _Shit!_ ” she hisses under her breath, the frustration mounting in her chest as—

 

“What’s wrong?” Wanda’s sleepy voice suddenly comes from behind her; Natasha nearly jumps out of her skin. 

 

She turns cautiously back to a droopy-eyed Wanda. “Hi,” she says dumbly. 

 

A smile tugs at Wanda’s lips as the girl nestles further into the navy blue bedspread. “Hi.”

 

“How’d you sleep?” Natasha asks then instead of freaking out, because Wanda just looks so _good_ , with the rays of golden sunlight pouring through the window giving the illusion that she’s literally glowing—and all of a sudden, Natasha can’t for the life of her recall what it is that she’s meant to be so upset about right now.

 

Wanda grins tiredly. “Well. You?”

 

“I have a headache,” Natasha groans, scrunching her features self-deprecatingly.

 

Wanda’s smirk fades, if only slightly. “You were pretty out of it last night.” 

 

Natasha nods, doing her best to keep a somewhat casual air about her. “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be. I thought Drunk Natasha was cute.” 

 

Natasha pouts. “You’re making fun of me.”

 

Wanda giggles. “I’m not.”

 

“Are.”

 

“Not."

 

At that, Natasha rolls her eyes, lips quirking upwards despite herself (and despite the handcuff situation that still has yet to be remedied, because, _Shit_ ). “Mmmhm.” She pauses, then impassively decides to just rip off the bloody bandaid: "Do you have the keys?”

 

Wanda frowns, propping her elbow up on the mattress to rest her head on her hand. “Keys?”

 

Natasha jerks her head towards the headboard, where her bloodied wrist is chained securely to the metal slats. 

 

At that, Wanda’s gaze quickly grows sad and serious, and she’s looking back to Natasha with something like genuine _care_ in ocean-blue eyes. (Natasha’s rather confused by it all.) “No, I didn’t find any before you fell asleep last night.” 

 

Natasha just nods, already resigning herself to the fact that there probably isn’t a key to be found—at least, not in Barney’s room. “Crap,” she mumbles. 

 

“What about the nightstand?” Wanda suggests. 

 

“Already checked.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Indeed.” Natasha sighs, her headache only growing worse as she thinks through a plan. “We need bolt cutters.”

 

At that, Wanda’s eyes widen. “What?”

 

“Picking these locks,” Natasha paused to jangle the cuffs around her wrist, “is a lot harder than they make it look in the movies. Trust me. Ergo, we need bolt-cutters.”

 

“Egg-who?” Wanda questions genuinely, head tilted. 

 

“You’re cute.” 

 

Wanda’s cheeks tinge pink at Natasha’s words. “If you say so,” she mumbles. 

 

Natasha grins. “I do. Now, about those bolt cutters…. "

 

Wanda lets out a good-natured sigh. “Tell me what I need to do, Ms. Romanoff.”

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

Five minutes later finds Wanda creeping back into the room, holding the rusty steel bolt cutters far away from her body like they might explode at any given moment—Natasha has to fight the urge to laugh. 

 

“Mission successful?” she asks wryly, brow quirked. 

 

Wanda rolls her eyes. “These,” she holds them up emphatically, “are very strange.”

 

Natasha grins. “Yeah, yeah. Now,” she wiggles, raising her chin to gesture towards the cuffs, “hammer time?”

 

Wanda tilts her head, face blank. “That is from a movie, yes?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“Americans,” Wanda mutters with a shake of her head as she approaches the bed—a moment later, she’s straddling Natasha with the cutters in hand, then leaning intoxicatingly close as she reaches up to get the large pliers around the chain. 

 

Natasha, for her part, is given an eyeful of the smooth milky skin at Wanda’s chest, the zipper low on her hoodie, breasts bobbing tauntingly above Natasha’s face, barely restrained behind the burgundy cotton of the sweater— _Holy shit_ , Natasha thinks. 

 

(It’s becoming painfully apparent that Natasha really didn’t think this whole thing through.)

 

“You, um—" she stammers, trying desperately to avert her gaze from the brunette’s ample chest just an inch away from the tip of her nose. “You almost got it?”

 

There’s the sound of more fiddling up above, little huffs of frustrated air escaping Wanda as she wrestles with the cuffs. “Not quite,” she replies, her voice breathy as her body squirms atop Natasha—Natasha worries for a brief moment that she’s going to pass out. 

 

Instead, she takes a deep breath. “Take your time,” she manages, her voice muffled by Wanda’s (her) sweater. “We don’t have school for another—"

 

Neither of them have time to move as the door is suddenly thrown open, Clint and Pietro (both boys looking rather disheveled) standing wide-eyed side-by-side in the doorway—Natasha, realizing just how bad this must look, immediately feels a deep flush spreading across her cheeks:

 

Her wrist still cuffed to the headboard, Wanda straddling her just above the waist and leaning obscenely forward with the bolt cutters to free her such that the entire length of her body is pressed generously against Natasha’s, Wanda’s sweater just about falling completely open at the front, Natasha dressed only in the 8th-grade graduation crop-top and tight short black spandex... 

 

_Well, fuck_. 

 

“Ew!!” Pietro yells dramatically, smacking both hands rapidly over his eyes. 

 

Natasha ignores him, instead staring humorlessly at the other boy. “Clint,” she warns, “this is not what it looks like.” 

 

Clint, for his part, is already smiling with unrestrained glee, blue eyes dancing with amusement. “Nice one, Tash!” he calls with a wink. “Always knew you had it in you.” 

 

Natasha shuts her eyes, mortified. “I’ll kill you.” 

 

“You’re currently handcuffed to the headboard,” Clint points out gleefully, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

 

“I hadn’t noticed.”

 

“You know, Wanda,” he says then, ignoring Natasha’s quip. “A responsible Top would have keys in this sit—"

 

“Clint,” Natasha growls. 

 

Clint just waves a hand at her dismissively, moving on rather quickly: “Did you guys use protection?”

 

Wanda blinks, still frozen atop Natasha. “We’re lesbians, Clint.”

 

“So you think that makes you somehow immune to the Herp?”

 

Wanda blinks again. “The what?”

 

Natasha groans. 

 

“Herpes,” Clint informs her in a matter-of-fact tone.

 

Natasha feels Wanda’s body tense above her. “Oh.”

 

“Yep,” Clint continues, undeterred by the marked lack of enthusiasm in the room. “You know, it’s like I always say—“

 

Natasha glowers. “Don’t.”

 

“Pain is temporary—"

 

“Clint,” Natasha snarls. 

 

“—but herpes is forever!” 

 

Natasha lets out a long sigh.

 

Pietro shrugs from his place beside Clint, both hands still firmly clapped over his eyes. “That’s catchy, bro,” he observes unhelpfully. “You should put that on a T-shirt.”

 

“No, he shouldn’t,” “No, he shouldn’t," Natasha and Wanda both retort in unison, making brief electrifying eye contact with each other before looking away with flushed pink cheeks. 

 

“Awww,” Clint coos from the doorway. “That's cute.”

 

“Fuck you, Clint.”

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so i'm getting this one out right now (i had to work on it a lot today to get it done in time) because i'm going out of town in a bit to go see my big brother graduate college (which i'm literally so excited about; he's kind of who i model the 'barney' character here after) and i'll be gone for a couple of days
> 
> i'll try to keep up some writing here and there, but likely the next chapters gonna take a little longer... please be patient with me, and hopefully i can get it done on time:))))


	30. yevgeni romanoff pt. 2 (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda and Natasha have a talk about last night. 
> 
> Also, Pietro is very confused by Americans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so i'm still out of town, but i'm leaving today to go back and had this chapter mostly finished... so hopefully should be back on regular track in terms of writing each chapter, but we'll see
> 
> that said, haven't had time quite yet to do my usual edits and proofreads, so sorry for any mistakes i've missed- i'm planning to come back in a bit and fix all those
> 
> hope you like:)

Clint and Pietro leave after a couple minutes (Thank _God_ , because Wanda’s cheeks are absolutely _burning_ with embarrassment), and after a quick glance at the clock (it reads 6:24am), she realizes they have a good hour before they need to leave for school. 

 

“Hey Wanda?” Natasha asks from beneath her, voice muffled. 

 

“Hm?”

 

She jangles the cuff noisily against the metal slats of the headboard, and Wanda suppresses a giggle. “Am I gonna be free any time soon?”

 

“Impatient,” Wanda quips as she angles the thick bolt cutters as close as she can around the delicate chain and— _Clink!_ There. 

 

Immediately, Natasha’s pulling her wrist down, frowning at the cuff still secured tightly around her bloodied wrist while Wanda sits comfortably back in her lap. “How do we get this off?”

 

Wanda frowns. “I don’t know.”

 

“Bolt cutters?”

 

Wanda shakes her head adamantly. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

 

Natasha’s gaze softens in the morning light. “Okay,” she agrees. “I can just pick the lock.” 

 

“I thought you said it was a lot harder than the movies made it look.”

 

“Harder, but not impossible,” Natasha says with a wink. 

 

Wanda rolls her eyes good-naturedly at that, tossing the bolt cutters unceremoniously onto the carpeted floor and sliding reluctantly off of Natasha to sit in the mess of sheets on Barney’s bed. 

 

“Can we talk?” Wanda asks then before she can think better of it, not bothering to hide the desperation in her features as she looks pleadingly down at a still-horizontal Natasha.

 

Natasha bites her lip with clear uneasiness, moving her body to sit upright across from Wanda. “I’m sorry about last night,” she murmurs quietly, apologetic green eyes shyly coming up to meet Wanda’s.

 

Quickly, Wanda shakes her head, reaching out for Natasha’s un-cuffed wrist and smiling when the redhead allowed Wanda to take her hand in both of hers. “Don’t apologize, okay? I just…” she trails off, letting out a small breath. “I’m just worried, okay? I wanna know what’s going on with you.” 

 

“I—"

 

“Not that you, like, _have_ to tell me or anything,” Wanda rambles, desperate to get her point across, to let Natasha know that she’s not and won’t ever be under any pressure from Wanda to do something she doesn’t want to do. Ever. “I just—I mean, I just like you, like, a _lot_ , and I just get worried and last night really made me worry even more ‘cause I know you’re going through things and it’s not like you have to let me know what they are I just—Well, I just—"

 

She halts herself abruptly at the bemused smirk steadily widening across Natasha’s features. 

 

“Shit,” Wanda mumbles sheepishly, her cheeks flushing. “I was rambling again, huh?”

 

Natasha chuckles, and _God_ , if she isn’t the most beautiful thing Wanda has ever seen—soft and slightly droopy-eyed in the amber luminescence, rays of morning sunlight falling beautifully over her exposed limbs as she smiles openly at Wanda, jade-green eyes twinkling. 

 

“I like your rambles,” Natasha assures her. “And I like you a lot, too.” 

 

Wanda’s blush deepens. “G-good! I-I’m glad.” _Idiot!_ her brain screams—and really, she can’t find it within herself to argue with that assessment. 

 

But Natasha just chuckles again, low and husky and utterly _debilitating_ (—seriously, does she know what that does to Wanda?), before her features turn marginally more serious; introspective, almost. “Do you remember what I said to you that one day in PreCalc, when you were asking if I was okay?”

 

Wanda nods. “Yeah, you—you said you had a rough night, and I asked if you wanted to talk about it. You said you weren’t sure yet.”

 

Natasha’s eyes widen with every word. “You… You _remember_ that?” she asks disbelievingly.

 

“I remember pretty much all of our interactions,” Wanda admits softly, and her heart breaks at the entirely blown-away look on Natasha’s face. 

 

But in true Natasha-like fashion, she recovers all too quickly, schooling her features into a flawless expression of nonchalance. (Wanda loathes the people who made Natasha think hiding her emotions was so paramount to her survival.) “Yeah, and I told you that—that I wanted you to know me. I meant it then, and I mean it now… okay?”

 

Warmth erupts in Wanda’s chest. “Okay.”

 

“So, um… remember my dad?”

 

Wanda nods again. “You said he was a bad man.”

 

“He was,” Natasha agrees, her gaze turning distant. “He didn’t really like me growing up—Well, actually, that’s an understatement, I think,” she chuckles wryly (though there’s little humor in it), "because he hated me. A lot.”

 

Natasha’s hand squeezes Wanda’s. “He’d hit me for the smallest things, like forgetting to clear the table, or using the wrong tone of voice when we talked. He never really held back his strength, either, because I didn’t really understand the phrase ‘beat someone bloody’ until him.” Pain lances deep in Wanda’s chest at that, and her eyes are already burning with unshed tears, but she knows she needs to be strong—for Natasha, if not for herself. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure I was ever going to make it to middle school—I thought for sure he’d kill me by then.” Another bitter smile quirks at Natasha’s lips, and Wanda wants to cry. 

 

“I wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved when I made it to 5th grade still very much alive and breathing. I’d found a way to deal with it, though, you know? The bruises, the yelling, the self-hatred—God, I hated myself. I still kinda do, I guess. I don’t know if that’s ever gonna go away,” Natasha says that last sentence the quietest, her voice breaking on the final syllable—Wanda squeezes Natasha’s hand tightly in both of hers. “But, um—that was the worst part, you know? Because I-I thought I’d seen the worst of it; I thought I knew what the rest of my life was gonna look like living with Yevgeni, even if it wasn’t pretty.”

 

“But then, uh… Then he started watching me shower, and asking me to sit on his lap, and stroking my thighs all the time and calling me his beautiful little girl.” Wanda feels an icy hand clenching around her heart. “Which was weird, ‘cause like I said, he never really liked me. I didn’t really mind it though, I guess, ‘cause he was finally giving me the affection and attention I’d always craved from the very beginning—I was just happy he was acting like I was finally _good_ for something, even if I really didn’t understand what that was.”

 

Natasha fiddles with her hands as an alarming sort of coldness gathers in emerald-green irises. “I don’t remember how old I was the first time it happened—I was still really young, though. A virgin, obviously,” Natasha says that part with humor—but Wanda doesn’t smile, and neither does she. 

 

Natasha shuts her eyes tightly then, her lower lip trembling. “There was so much blood, and it hurt so _so_ bad.” Wanda feels physically sick as she listens, nausea curling in her gut at the sheer _pain_ in Natasha’s expression (though she’s doing her damnedest to hide it), and _God_ , she’s glad Yevgeni Romanoff is already dead and buried deep beneath the ground or she’d put him there herself.

 

“Then, um—then, the money problems started getting bad. He, um—" she pauses abruptly, looking conflicted. “Are you sure you want to hear this part?”

 

Wanda blinks, confused by the sudden question. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well, um,” Natasha heaves a defeated sigh, cheeks tinged pink. “It’s just, I know this stuff is kinda… not fun to hear about, you know? And I don’t blame you if you decide you don’t like me any more because of it, cause I know it’s a lot, I—"

 

“Natasha,” Wanda gently stops her before she can finish. “Are you worried I’m not going to be attracted to you anymore if you tell me what happened?”

 

Natasha ducks her head, looking adorably shy as she mumbles, “Maybe.”

 

Wanda sighs, shaking her head as she leans forward to softly plant a lingering kiss on Natasha’s pouting red lips, delighting in the warmth she finds there. 

 

“I think you might just be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” she informs Natasha as she pulls away (who suddenly looks rather dazed from the kiss, blinking periodically like she’s not quite sure it really happened), smiling to herself when the girl’s pink blush deepens under high cheekbones. “The things you have gone through don’t change that, okay? Really, I think you’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, and that is because of what you’ve been through. Whatever you are comfortable telling me, I’ll take it—I just want to _know_ you. Okay?”

 

Natasha inhales sharply at that, green eyes shining with tears, and _Christ_ , she’s so stunning it makes Wanda’s breath catch in her throat. 

 

“You’re really nice to me,” Natasha murmurs eventually, shaking her head ruefully at herself. 

 

“Because you deserve it,” Wanda replies without missing a beat. “And I know you don’t think that now, but I’m going to do whatever I can to make sure you believe it someday.”

 

She barely finishes her sentence before soft lips are being eagerly pressed against her own, and God, she loves the feel of Natasha, warm and pliant against her—and all too soon, they’re gone as Natasha leans back, a rosy blush tinting her cheeks, an almost contrite grin on her face. 

 

“Sorry, I just… really, really wanted to do that.” 

 

Wanda shakes her head immediately, lips tingling with the memory of Natasha’s kiss. “You do not have to apologize for that. Ever.”

 

Natasha chuckles. “Okay,” she agrees, green eyes still shiny with tears—then the nervousness from earlier is returning, fingers fiddling in her lap as she sits cross-legged on the bed. (Wanda winces at the realization that the cuff is still secured tightly around the ring of dried blood on her wrist, and it makes her heart physically _ache_ for Natasha.) “Do you.. Do you still want to know the rest of it?”

 

Wanda tilts her head. “Do you still want to tell me?”

 

“I want you to know everything,” Natasha muses, more to herself than anything else, and Wanda’s heart skips a beat. “I’m just… nervous. Nervous it’ll make you see me different.” 

 

“What if I asked a question? You would not have to answer it, of course, but maybe it would help… focus you. Would that be okay?”

 

Wanda grins at the visible relief washing over Natasha’s features at that, and she makes a note of that for later—that Natasha likes direction, that she doesn’t seem to mind when it’s Wanda who’s giving it. 

 

“Yes.” Natasha nods. “Yes, I—I think I’d like that.”

 

“Okay,” Wanda intones, rubbing soothing circles into the soft skin of Natasha’s hand in hers. “Why the handcuffs?” she asks, taking care to keep her tone neutral and light; unthreatening. 

 

Natasha stiffens for a moment before forcing herself to relax, slowly letting out a breath while she furrows her brow, as if searching for the proper words—almost instantly, Wanda knows that whatever it is, it’s not going to be good. 

 

(Though, to be fair, she never really thought Natasha cuffed herself like that for fun.)

 

“He used to chain me up,” she whispers, and every word hits Wanda like a sucker punch to the gut.

 

(For what feels like the millionth time, she says thanks to whoever’s up there for the fact that Yevgeni Romanoff is long dead.)

 

“Who?” she finds herself questioning gently, even as the sinking feeling deep in her stomach tells her she already knows the answer to that question.

 

“Yevgeni,” Natasha answers flatly (it doesn’t escape Wanda’s notice that she distances herself by using his first name, whereas earlier she’d referred to him as ‘dad’), and Wanda feels the tears in her eyes threatening to overwhelm her. “For days at a time, and he’d charge his friends money and beer and cigarettes for time with me, and I just… I couldn’t _do_ anything, and my body got so weak after a while and—" she stops herself as a tear rolls down her cheek, “—I was just so _helpless_.”

 

Wanda doesn’t stop her own tears from falling (she couldn’t if she tried, she’s sure), doesn’t stop the way she automatically squeezes Natasha’s hand tighter in her own because even with the redhead warm and alive beneath her fingertips, she needs to know that Natasha’s not there anymore, needs to know that Natasha’s _safe_ , needs that reassurance like she’s not sure she’s ever needed anything before.

 

(She thinks her eyes might be flashing with furious red, but she doesn’t care she doesn’t care, not when people dared to hurt Natasha this badly, dared to hurt someone Wanda lov—

 

Loves. 

 

Wanda loves her. 

 

Wanda _loves_ her, and God, she can’t even bother trying to be surprised about it.)

 

Natasha sniffles, using her one free hand to wipe hastily at the tears on her cheeks. “So, I know it’s counter-intuitive,” she manages, her voice quiet and _broken_ as it falls from full rosy lips, “but sometimes I can’t sleep unless I chain myself lik-like the basement, like Yevgeni used to do. I’m sorry; I know it’s morbid, and off-putting, I—"

 

“Natasha, _please_ don’t apologize,” Wanda interrupts, on the verge of begging. “Don’t apologize for what those monsters did to you. Ever. Okay?”

 

Natasha looks uncertain, but she nods. “Okay.” Then she’s biting her lip again, like something’s bothering her—Wanda just waits patiently, more than content to give her all the time she needs. “Hey, Wanda?” she speaks after a long moment, her expression heart-wrenchingly tentative. 

 

“Yeah?"

 

“Do you still like me? You know, now that you know?”

 

“Natasha,” Wanda says softly, allowing the adoration she feels to drip freely from her tone. “I don’t think you understand just how goddamned much I like you, and just how much it grows with every minute we spend together.”

 

Natasha frowns, still looking unconvinced. “Even after I told you about… about the basement?” She nearly whispers the last bit, like it’s something she’s afraid to say aloud (Wanda thinks she just might be).

 

“Truthfully, I think I lo- _like_ ,” she catches herself, unsure if Natasha’s ready to hear the magnitude of the truth quite yet (and honestly, not quite sure if she herself is ready to tell her), “you even more now that I know.” Her heart crumbles at the adorably confused look on Natasha’s features, but she powers on: “It’s just, you know, I knew you were strong. Ever since the day we first met, I knew that. But God, I had no fucking _clue_ , not really—because you are so so _so_ strong, stronger than anyone ever gives you any credit for, and I feel so fucking _lucky_ that you’re choosing to spend time with me, of all people, when I know anyone on this huge-ass Earth,” Natasha giggles at that, "would be lucky to have you.”

 

Natasha looks wholly _speechless_ (a fairly rare phenomenon for her, from what Wanda can tell) after that, tear tracks drying on pale cheeks, green eyes wide and filled with awe—the very picture of textbook disbelief. 

 

She’s silent for a long moment, and Wanda is, too, just basking in the warmth and tenderness of that moment, at the sheer emotion playing out on Natasha’s regal features. 

 

After a while, Natasha breaks the silence: “Wanda?” 

 

Wanda grins. “Yes, pretty girl?” 

 

Instantly, Natasha’s cheek flush a deep rosy pink at the term of endearment, and Wanda mentally lauds herself, because _God_ , she loves it when she can make Natasha do that. 

 

“Can we, um—Can we cuddle?” Natasha looks so painstakingly shy when she asks, eyes shining with earnest hope. 

 

“Of course, Tash.” A second later, she’s lying back into the mattress, her head comfortably rested on the pillows, arms spread open for Natasha to crawl atop her—and without a moment’s hesitation she does, the redhead letting out a sweet hum of contentment as she curls warmly into Wanda’s chest, their legs tangling in the sheets. 

 

(Wanda thinks she’s never felt so at peace in her entire life.)

 

“Hey, Wanda?” The question rumbles drowsily from Natasha’s lips against Wanda’s chest, and she smiles reflexively. 

 

“Hm?”

 

Natasha’s lips quirk as she burrows herself further into Wanda’s collarbone. “I like it when you call me ‘Tash.'"

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

It’s 7:10 by the time they’re all showered, dressed (Natasha having finally picked the lock on her cuff after a good ten minutes of fiddling with it), and sitting groggily in the kitchen—Wanda and Natasha side-by-side on the counter (Natasha leaning her head tiredly on Wanda’s shoulder), Pietro leaning against the opposite counter, Clint standing near the stove and munching on a granola bar. 

 

“So,” Clint announces jovially, words muffled by a mouthful of food. “Last night was fun.” 

 

Wanda giggles before she can stop herself, and Pietro lets out an amused huff of air—Natasha, too, is smiling wryly, because _God_ , so much has changed in such a short span of time, and it’s absolutely ridiculous to internalize.

 

Meanwhile, Wanda ponders on the reddish-haired man still snoring on the table, biting her lip and waiting to ask as the weary laughter dies down. 

 

“Is he,” she jerks her head towards the shirtless and bloodied unconscious form of Clint’s older brother laid solidly on the kitchen table, “going to be alright?”

 

Clint just nods, a genuine smile spreading across his features. 

 

“Thanks to you guys,” Natasha adds, giving Wanda and Pietro a meaningful look—Wanda’s heart beats faster in her chest. 

 

“Seriously,” Clint agrees, nodding emphatically as he waves his half-eaten granola bar animatedly through the air. “And I’m sorry that things went south over there…” Wanda’s body stiffens at the memory of the hospital, and she knows Natasha can feel it. "I’m just—" he pauses, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious as he turns to eye his sleeping brother with a wistful gaze. “He means everything to me, you know? So, really—thank you, okay?”

 

Pietro grins, though it’s rather suppressed—Wanda knows her brother is thinking about last night, too, with the snake people’s logo, and the guard, and their collective bouts of utter panic. 

 

“We are friends, yes?” Pietro says, by all accounts recovering his affable temperament rather quickly. “This is what friends do.” 

 

Wanda nods. “What he said.”

 

“Alright, assholes,” Clint jibes, the playfulness rapidly returning to his boyish features. “That’s more than enough sentimentality for me today. Leave in 10?

 

Pietro groans theatrically but agrees, and Wanda feels herself mindlessly doing so, too, as Natasha gives Clint an easy nod beside her.

 

“Sick—be right back!” he yelps before running off down the hall to—well, to do what, Wanda’s not quite sure, but she’s not all that inclined to ask.

 

“‘Sick’?” Pietro questions, confusion evident on his sharp features. 

 

Wanda just shrugs. 

 

“Americans,” her twin laments exasperatedly under his breath, shaking his head to himself as he turns to exit after Clint without offering an explanation as to where he’s going—though honestly, Wanda’s a bit too preoccupied to notice. 

 

A second later, she’s pulled from her disoriented haze by Natasha lightly nudging at her shoulder with her own—she looks down to see worried green eyes and a slight ( _adorable_ ) pout on tempting red lips. 

 

“Talk about it later?” the girl whispers, quietly enough that a retreating Pietro can’t hear—Wanda’s grateful for that. 

 

“Of course." 

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧


	31. the consequential effects of lesbianism (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's a spaz, Natasha's rather done, and Wanda's a cutie pie. 
> 
> Also, Alexei's a dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bahahaha i love writing tony and nat's dynamic i think it's so so funny

Natasha had just barely made it into the halls of Tesseract High for her first block class (African-American Literature) when her phone began buzzing incessantly in the pocket of her jeans—it wasn’t rhythmic, she realized after a quick moment, so not a call, just… a _really_ aggressive texter, she supposed. 

 

(With that, she tentatively ruled out Alexei—‘aggressive’ wasn’t his style, not when he knew it was about a hundred times more ominous to be just the opposite.)

 

Sighing deeply to herself, she fished the device out of her back pocket as she entered Dr. Raina’s classroom and slumped into her unofficial seat in the back left corner, squinting at the screen with a furrowed brow while she scrolled through the barrage of messages in her notifications.

 

 **unknown** **7:51am**

this is unconstitutional.. im calling my lawyers

 **unknown** **7:50am**

u cannot hide from me!11

 **unknown** **7:50am**

i saw ur car this morning

 **unknown** **7:50am**

oh i sEe how it is… captain eyepatch catches  
me going down on you onCE in fitzs classrm and  
i get the silent treatment? u shud b thanking me!!1

 **unknown** **7:49am**

this rlly hurts, red. i thot we were friends :(((

 **unknown** **7:48am**

why u no text back!!

 **unknown** **7:47am**

yoooooooo

 **unknown** **7:47am**

hey there prtty lady

 

_Jesus Christ_. Natasha heaved a long sigh, before typing out a response. 

 

to **unknown** **7:52am**

how did you get this number?

 

She could vaguely hear Dr. Raina beginning her lesson on Frederick Douglass’ Slave Narrative, but she was rather grateful for the distraction as three dots popped up in a grey message bubble on her screen, even if that distraction was the chronically obnoxious Tony Stark—she only had to wait about 10 seconds before she got her reply:

 

 **unknown** **7:52am**

ask me no questions n i’ll tell u no lies

 

Natasha fought the urge to roll her eyes.

 

to **unknown** **7:53am**

cute. what do you want tony

 **unknown** **7:53am**

again, would it kiLL you to ask how iM doing first?1?!1

to **unknown** **7:54am**

would you rather i block you? bc that can  
certainly be arranged

 **unknown** **7:54am**

im fiNE thnks for asking

to **unknown** **7:55am**

last chance. what do u want

 **unknown** **7:56am**

aight aight… u coming to detn today?

to **unknown** **7:56am**

detn???

 **unknown** **7:56am**

🙄detention smh

to **unknown** **7:58am**

smh..?

 **unknown** **7:58am**

oh my goD

 

Natasha grinned—she could practically _feel_ the boy’s frustration through the text chain, and it was glorious. 

 

to **unknown** **7:59am**

pretty sure ‘oh my god’ is ‘omg’ not ‘smh’

 **unknown** **8:00am**

slfksdjghSLEKhsgdk

 **unknown** **8:00am**

ur doing this on purpose

to **unknown** **8:00am**

am i?

 **unknown** **8:01am**

im revokign ur friend card

to **unknown** **8:01am**

my what?

 **unknown** **8:01am**

ur tony’s friend card. its gone now

to **unknown** **8:02am**

we’re not friends

 **unknown** **8:03am**

well duH.. i just took ur friend card!

 

Natasha rolled her eyes at that, tucking her phone back into her pocket as she turned her attentions back to Dr. Raina—as far as she was concerned, Tony could stew for a while without a response from her, the nosy moron. 

 

Truthfully, though, she should have known the blessed newfound silence would last for more than 30 seconds or so before her phone was buzzing with more unread messages—and honestly, though she’ll never admit it, she was rather grateful for it; Dr. Raina was just beginning an enthusiastic dive into this class’s second chapter in which Douglass described hiding and watching whilst a female slave was chained and whipped until the skin on her back was in tatters. 

 

So, really—Thank _God_ for Tony Stark. (Something she truly never thought she’d find herself unironically saying. Ever.)

 

 **unknown** **8:18am**

???!??!..’’’,()&”@76&$0

 **unknown** **8:17am**

diD U HEAR THAT? ITS UNREVOKED OK  
AR U HAPPY NOW??!!11.,.&8@

 **unknown** **8:15am**

fiNE im unrevoking ur friend card ok??!?!11

 **unknown** **8:14am**

nATASHA

 **unknown** **8:13am**

natasha

 **unknown** **8:13am**

ur makin gme sad

 **unknown** **8:12am**

oh cMon that was funny

 **unknown** **8:11am**

69 hehhe

 **unknown** **8:10am**

ok fiNE. 85

 **unknown** **8:09am**

!!!!!!!

 **unknown** **8:08am**

i’ll even give u a discount! lets say… 100  
and we’re good

 **unknown** **8:07am**

:(((((

 **unknown** **8:06am**

natasghaaaaa

 **unknown** **8:05am**

bc its not irreversible! i accept apologies  
in cash

 **unknown** **8:05am**

this is bc i took ur friend card isnt it

 **unknown** **8:04am**

staaaaaaahp

 **unknown** **8:04am**

are u ignoring me

 

Natasha’s grin widened as she scrolled through each new notification—God, he was too easy. 

 

to **unknown** **8:20am**

that was quite the journey

 **unknown** **8:20am**

ur mean

to **unknown** **8:21am**

mmhm

 **unknown** **8:22am**

uGh jus tell me r u coming to detn

to **unknown** **8:23am**

aw, did u miss me last time?

 **unknown** **8:23am**

like a romeo misses his juliet <3

to **unknown** **8:24am**

they both died. plus i dont like u

 **unknown** **8:25am**

did they actually? yikes

to **unknown** **8:27am**

yes, tony, i’ll b at detention

 **unknown** **8:27am**

*detn

 **unknown** **8:27am**

see u at 3 gorgeous ;)

to **unknown** **8:28am**

go fuck yourself

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

“Hey,” Wanda greeted, nudging her with her shoulder, and _Christ_ , she looked good in another pair of Natasha’s clothes—short black running shorts, the Россия hoodie zipped sinfully low (no bra, because Natasha supposed her self-control wasn’t fucked enough to begin with), and a pair of black high-top Converse.

 

Her hair was up in a messy bun, face free of any makeup, wide blue eyes shining with mischief—it made Natasha’s chest ache with affection and _want_.

 

“Hey, Wanda,” she said back with a shy smile. “You look amazing.” 

 

A slight blush tinged Wanda’s cheeks. “You told me that this morning, you know.” 

 

Natasha shrugged. “I meant it then, and I mean it now."

 

“You’re cute.”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes good-naturedly, though the smile on her face widened. “We have a free next to our lunch after the next block… Wanna go get lunch or something?”

 

Immediately, Wanda’s blue eyes lit up with excitement. “I would like that very much.”

 

“You would like what very much?” Pietro’s buoyant voice interjected as he joined their little circle in the halls, his platinum-blonde hair messy and windblown on his scalp, eyebrows wiggling mischievously. 

 

Natasha smirked, seeing an opportunity. “All the hot, sweaty lesbian sex we’re planning on having later.”

 

“With handcuffs,” Wanda added without missing a beat, a wicked grin on her features. “And oils.”

 

Natasha nodded solemnly. “Lots of oils."

 

Pietro gaped, a deep flush spreading across his pale cheeks. “That’s—I—You—“

 

“Aw, man!” Clint exclaimed with clear exasperation on his features as he walked up to join them. “You broke Pietro,” he pouted, waving a hand in front of the Sokovian boy, heaving a dramatic sigh when he remained unresponsive. “See?”

 

Natasha shrugged. 

 

Clint’s pout deepened, putting both hands on his jean-clad waists as he eyed them with visible suspicion. “What did you two do? Why’s he all goo-goo-ga-ga?”

 

Wanda blinked. “Goo-goo-what?”

 

Clint’s gaze narrowed. “Like you don’t know.”

 

“Huh?"

 

“Lesbianism,” Natasha offered after a brief second of contemplation, a smile quirking at her lips.

 

“Ah,” Clint acknowledged, like that made perfect sense. “Poor kid.”

 

Wanda snorted. 

 

“Well,” he announced, clapping a hand around Pietro’s unmoving form, beginning to drag the boy with him down the hall. “This has been fun.”

 

Wanda cocked a brow. “I think that we have different definitions of fun.”

 

Clint just rolled his eyes at that, still pulling Pietro further down the hall. “Bye, lesbians!” he called loudly, and both girls winced as various students turned to stare curiously at them in response.

 

“Idiot,” Natasha grumbled under her breath before turning to a bemused Wanda with a smirk. “Say, is that offer for hot sweaty lesbian sex still good?”

 

Instantly, Wanda flushed a rosy pink, and Natasha thrilled at the sight. 

 

“You’re awful,” the girl mumbled after a long moment, the stark flush reaching the tips of her ears.

 

Natasha’s smirk widened. “You like it.”

 

“Yes,” Wanda agreed, letting out a theatric sigh even as the bright blush remained in her cheeks. “I suppose I do."

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

Natasha was just sliding into her seat at the roundish wooden table for Creative Non-Fiction when her phone buzzed in her jean pocket—expecting another text from a painfully persistent Tony, she fished it out with the ghost of a smirk on her lips, scanning—

 

_Shit_. 

 

Her blood ran cold. 

 

 **alexei** **9:59am**

Доброе утро, Natalia. Let’s meet tonight.

I’ve missed you, мышка.

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Доброе утро ( _Dobroye utra_ ) | Good morning
> 
> мышка ( _myshka_ ) | mouse


	32. everyone loves ihop (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha takes Wanda to ihop for lunch (because _everyone_ loves ihop).
> 
> Also, Tony is a massive pain in the ass, though Natasha might be starting to grow more fond of him than she'd ever like to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had a bit of writer's block, but came up with this chapter - also i think we might be reaching the end soon so that's exciting!
> 
> enjoy:)

For lunch, Natasha takes Wanda to ihop, because duh— _everyone_ loves ihop. 

 

But then Wanda shyly admits in that adorable accent of hers that she’s actually never been to an ihop, and Natasha becomes more determined than ever to ensure that Wanda experiences it.

 

(Personally, she doesn’t _love_ ihop, per se—but Clint sure does, and over the years, she’s grown into a sort of appreciation for it.

 

And, she supposes, their amazing chocolate chip pancakes certainly don’t hurt.)

 

So, she pulls them up to her and Clint’s go-to ihop: a little bit run down (the white sign is rusting at the edges), with a neon sign that says ‘O EN’ rather than ‘OPEN’ (the ‘P’ has been out of commission for as long as Natasha can recall), and the bright yellow paint between the parking spaces almost completely worn off in many spots on the blacktop.

 

But it’s familiar; it’s home, almost.

 

(She remembers one particular instance in which they’d both walked to this very ihop from Clint’s house—an hour-and-a-half-long walk—because Barney was cross-faded out of his mind and in a very unpleasant mood, something neither Clint nor Natasha much wanted to bear witness to.

 

It was 3am, and Natasha was covered in blood, having only just arrived at the Barton household after a particularly violent night with Yevgeni and his friends—and since Barney’s violent alcohol-and-weed-induced haze ensured she couldn’t come inside long enough to shower, they settled on going to ihop instead. 

 

The lady at the counter, Victoria, was one they’d come to know well over the years, and she'd barely batted an eyelid as an exhausted-looking Clint walked in dragging a limping and bloodied Natasha behind him. 

 

They’d lingered there until the sun rose, Victoria silently topping up their coffees at periodic intervals before either could ask, splitting a massive stack of plain pancakes between the two of them topped with an obscene amount of syrup and butter—neither of them were all that hungry, though, both their appetites more or less gone, so they’d packaged up what was left and given it to the old homeless guy that hung around the neighboring Circle K.

 

It was a good night, despite everything—they returned at a quarter to 7 to find Barney passed out on the couch in a house that now reeked of marijuana and smoke, but he wasn’t drunk and high and mean anymore, so that was undoubtedly a win. 

 

Natasha got to shower when they’d returned, and by 8am her and Clint had tucked themselves safely into bed, though not before duct-taping some cardboard over the windows to block out the sun. 

 

When they awoke again it was dinnertime, and the sun was setting—they went to the park that afternoon, goofing around and talking and just _being_ together until it was well after dark. 

 

Even today, it’s still one of Natasha’s happiest memories.

 

She hopes she never forgets it.)

 

She opens the door for Wanda, smirking as the girl blushes, and says ‘Hi' to Tripp at the counter when they walk in—he’s a good friend of hers and Daisy’s (and also the Asian girl’s on-again-off-again sort-of boyfriend).

 

They get seated in a booth (there’s only one other person in the establishment besides Tripp, an older man sitting alone staring despondently at his order of over-easy eggs and three-stack of pancakes), and a second later, Tripp is strutting over in his bright-red ihop T-shirt and loose jeans, a jovial grin on his features. 

 

“Who’s this?” he asks charmingly, eyeing Wanda with kind chocolate-brown eyes. 

 

“This is Wanda,” Natasha responds, smiling easily up at him. 

 

“Oh, so _this_ is the famous Wanda?” he exclaims, his eyes lightening up with visible excitement, entirely undeterred by Natasha’s resultant glare. 

 

Wanda quirks a brow at Natasha over the table. “Famous?”

 

“Ignore him,” Natasha mumbles, her cheeks heating. 

 

“I’m Tripp,” the boy intones, offering his hand for her to shake. “It’s great to meet you, Wanda. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

 

Easily, Wanda takes it, a large grin on her face as her gaze darted between Natasha and Tripp as if watching a particularly compelling match of tennis. “All good things, yes?”

 

Tripp chuckles. “Oh, definitely, girl—all _very_ good things.”

 

“I’m gonna kill you,” Natasha mutters, her words muffled by both hands covering her flushed face even as the sound of Wanda’s musical laugh made her heart skip a beat.

 

“Natasha,” Wanda pouts—Natasha parts her fingers slightly to eye the Sokovian girl. “Play nice.”

 

Natasha heaves a dramatic sigh, but drops her hands from her face and relents. “Fine.”

 

They both turn back to Tripp who stands with raised eyebrows and a shit-eating grin on his face, making Natasha instantly regret agreeing to Wanda’s wishes. 

 

“Don’t you dare,” she warns. 

 

Tripp sucks his lips into his mouth for a long moment, clearly trying not to laugh as he recovers himself, digging out the notepad from his apron and a pen. 

 

“So,” he begins, amusement dripping from his tone. “What can I get you ladies?”

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

Natasha orders her regular stack of chocolate chip pancakes, and Wanda’s eyes grow wide like saucers when she does, so she instantly orders them another stack of chocolate chip for Wanda, too. 

 

And as it turns out, Wanda loves the pancakes—she’d never had them before coming to America, but five minutes into their meal the girl deems it the “Food of the Gods,” and tells Natasha in no uncertain terms that they absolutely have to bring Pietro with them next time, because he would love it even more than she did. 

 

Of course, Natasha agrees easily, a soft grin on her face at seeing Wanda so carefree, so _happy_ —she’d probably have agreed to anything at that moment if it meant Wanda kept smiling like that (not that she’d ever admit such a thing, of course). 

 

They sit in comfortable silence for a little while, then, eating their pancakes and exchanging shy smiles over the table—it’s nice, Natasha thinks. She loves being here with Wanda, where Alexei fades from her thoughts replaced in full by the adorable way Wanda scrunches her nose, the musical sound of her laugh, the unparalleled warmth that blooms in Natasha’s chest whenever she’s around.

 

“Do you remember when I told you about the experiments?” Wanda asks after a long silence, a thoughtful and almost scared look appearing on her pretty features—Natasha longs to smooth it away. 

 

Instead, she nods. “Of course, but… You don’t need to tell me about it, Wanda. Not if you don’t want to.”

 

Wanda shrugs, placing her fork delicately beside her empty plate. “I want you to know me.”

 

Natasha’s heart skips a beat. “Okay.”

 

“Pietro and I…” Wanda trails off, fiddling with the silvers rings on her fingers. “We called them ‘snake people.’” She chuckles, though there’s little humor in it, a rather sheepish look on her features. “It’s a stupid name, I know, I—"

 

“It’s not stupid,” Natasha interjects softly, eyeing Wanda with a gentle gaze, trying desperately to convey her understanding, her _care_. 

 

Wanda flushes slightly. “They, um, their symbol—it was there. At the hospital.” She takes a deep and shuddering breath, blue eyes clouded with a heart-wrenching sadness that threatens to break Natasha entirely. “I never thought that we would see it again, not after Sokovia.”

 

Natasha bites her lip, reaching for Wanda’s hand and filling with warmth when the girl allows her to intertwine their fingers together upon the table. 

 

“I’m here, okay?” she tells her, genuine and earnest—she knows there’s not much else to say, not anything that will effect the sort of safety she’d prefer; there’s only the fact that she is here, that Wanda is not alone against the people who hurt her, that she never will be, not if Natasha can help it. 

 

Wanda nods, relief flooding her features, and Natasha’s heart warms at the sight. “I know.”

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

Natasha heaves a sigh, eyeing the clock (3:02pm) as she drops her book bag unceremoniously onto the floor and slides into her seat besides a yawning Tony Stark—Mr. Ward sits motionless like a statue in the front of the room behind his desk, close cropped black hair styled immaculately, dark brown eyes watching them without a trace of empathy. 

 

“Glad you could join us today, Ms. Romanoff,” he remarks without a trace of humor as she makes an effort to remain unaffected in her seat, her stare blank and unwavering. 

 

She forces something like an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Mr. Ward—I had a family emergency.”

 

Mr. Ward's dark brows raise. “Is that so?”

 

“Dude, have a little compassion,” Tony interjects loudly, a lazy smirk on his features even as Mr. Ward shoots him an unimpressed glare. “What if her grandpa died or something?”

 

“You will address me as ‘Mr. Ward,’ and not anything different,” he growls, brown-eyed gaze turning cold and uncompromising. “Is that clear?”

 

“Totally,” Tony concedes, sarcasm dripping from his tone, and Natasha fights the urge to heave another exasperated sigh. “Crystal.”

 

Mr. Ward clenches his jaw. “I don’t like your tone, boy.”

 

“Yeah,” Tony muses with mock thoughtfulness, drumming his fingers noisily on the desk. “I don’t like yours, either—"

 

“Tony,” Natasha hisses, her expression caught somewhere halfway between murderous and pleading. “Cool it.”

 

Mr. Ward’s lips quirk upwards into something of a cold sneer. “Listen to the lady, Mr. Stark,” he advises coolly. “You don’t want to see what happens when you push me too far.”

 

Tony hums, more or less ignoring Mr. Ward’s threat as he turns in his seat to face Natasha. “Only because you asked so nicely, doll,” he drawls, wiggling his brows suggestively at her.

 

_Christ_. 

 

Mr. Ward lets out a slow breath, nostrils flaring. “We are going to sit here, in silence, until 5pm,” he snarls—Natasha’s just grateful he seems to be more or less letting Tony’s blatant insubordination go, at least for the moment. “Understood?”

 

Natasha nods quickly. “Understood.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Tony says with a playful mock salute that has Mr. Ward’s gaze narrowing dangerously again, and _Dammit, Stark_. 

 

Natasha fights the urge to slam her head on the desk as Mr. Ward silently fumes at his table and Tony slouches smugly in his seat—it’s going to be a long two hours. 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

It’s nearing the end of detention (4:52pm), and Natasha is growing more and more restless by the second—it seeps through her like a disease, like a _cancer_ , settling deep within her very bones and making her wish to be virtually anyone but herself. 

 

Tony’s blatant attempts at angering Mr. Ward have since receded to something of a dull whine, replaced instead by intermittent silence, his worried gaze fixed stubbornly upon Natasha as she taps her foot frantically and wills herself not to spontaneously implode—truthfully, she’s not sure which she preferred: Tony’s endless antagonizing comments of earlier or the silent but stifling concern she can currently feel in his unmoving stare. 

 

(She thinks she may have actually preferred the former.)

 

By some divine stroke of luck, they make it to 5:01pm without Tony infuriating Mr. Ward to the point of no return (a shocking turn of events), and additionally, Natasha manages to avoid fainting from the dizzying degree of stress and dread she feels curling in her stomach—overall, she’d most certainly venture to say that this time’s detention has been a win on all fronts, despite their formidable obstacles.

 

So, Mr. Grant dismisses them, and for once, Tony is without a snarky remark to land him in hot water—where typically she might’ve felt a visceral relief at that anomaly, it really only succeeds in further putting Natasha rather ill at ease. 

 

“Hey! Romanoff!” he calls as she’s booking it down the halls, desperate to leave, _now_ —she doesn’t stop for Tony, just continues her brisk pace, hoping desperately that he’ll take the hint and—

 

She feels a nudge against her shoulder as he matches pace with her. _Dammit_. 

 

“Romanoff,” he admonishes, slightly out of breath. “What’s your deal?”

 

“Don’t have one,” she replies shortly.

 

“Bullshit.”

 

Natasha purses her lips, quickening her pace as Tony does the same beside her. “None of your business.”

 

“Well, can I help?”

 

Natasha quirks a brow, forcing the ghost of a smirk on her features. “Tell me that’s a joke.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes, his expression uncharacteristically sincere. “Nah, Red, I’m serious! I’m good with computers, and technology, shit like that. So, can I do anything?”

 

Natasha heaves a small sigh, stopping in the empty hallway as Tony turns to mirror her in the echoey space. 

 

“That’s… strangely kind of you, Tony, but—"

 

“But what?” he prods, chocolate brown eyes wide and earnest. 

 

Natasha lets out another sigh, exhaustion overtaking her in waves. 

 

“He’s dangerous, okay?” she manages, vaguely shocked at her own unprompted honesty—and from the completely taken aback look on Tony’s face, he’s rather at a loss, too.

 

Though, to his credit, the disoriented look is gone after a second and Tony sets his jaw, determination on his features. “So? All the more reason you shouldn’t do this alone.”

 

Natasha fights the urge to roll her eyes. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

 

“You love me.”

 

“In your dreams, Stark,” she quips, then turns to continue down towards the double set of doors, leaving a perturbed-looking Tony in her wake.

 

“I’m a phone call away!” he calls loudly after her, and she ducks her head, smiling to herself as she walks, glad he can’t see it. 

 

Natasha shakes her head, a smirk still curving her lips. “Farewell, Romeo."

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗


	33. the sex talk (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexei's a jerk, but Wanda and Pietro are there to back Natasha up. 
> 
> It's cute. 
> 
> Also, Natasha has a realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so i'm graduating tomorrow, and it's been kind of crazy cause the whole thing is organized by my very pretentious school so there's been a lot of rehearsals and niceties and stuff like that etc.... so with graduation parties and shit like that, i've been super busy and unable to write
> 
> that said, got some inspiration and wrote this mostly in one go - sorry for any mistakes
> 
> hope you enjoy:)

It’s 6:39, and Natasha thinks she’s about to throw up. 

 

She’d convinced Clint to take the twins out with Daisy for a study session at ihop, no questions asked, after stopping by the trailer park to gather the twins’ things and leave them at Natasha’s for the foreseeable future… Clint had given her a look, the one that said _‘We’re talking about this later,’_ but otherwise didn’t object as she handed him the keys to her car (amidst many threats on what exactly would happen to him should he crash it) to take Wanda and Pietro out for pancakes.

 

And now, she's here: Sitting cross-legged upon her kitchen counter in leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, already shivering violently at the prospect of Alexei’s presence, at the knowledge that soon enough he’ll be here, raking his eyes up and down her form in that horrendously obscene fashion, eyeing her with those cold blue eyes like he _owns_ her—and in a way, she thinks with another turbulent shudder, he kind of does. 

 

A part of her _aches_ for Wanda while she sits there even as she knows it's foolish, knows it makes her selfish and stupid to want for the beautiful Sokovian girl with Alexei on his way to hurt her again, to _own_ her again like he used to all those years ago—no, she can't afford for Wanda to be a part of this. Not now, not ever. 

 

And still… she aches.

 

It's awful. 

 

It makes _her_ awful. 

 

She deserves everything that's coming her way, everything Alexei has planned for her, every last degrading thing he wants to do to her while she sobs and cries and begs for it to be over, every—

 

There’s a knock on the door that rips her from her thoughts, and Natasha’s stomach lurches with nausea—he’s here.

 

_Fuck_.

 

She feels… not quite present as she slides off the counter and onto the floor, as she pads slowly towards the door, as she grips the knob with shaking hands—it’s underwhelming and far too powerful at the same goddamned time, and it’s a bloody miracle she manages to open the door and see—

 

_Shit_.

 

Her ragged breath catches in her throat. 

 

He’s there, on her doorstep looking for all the world like he never left, in crisp (expensive) blue jeans and a starch white button-down, dark stubble lining his jaw, a chilling smirk on his angular features, icy blue eyes seeming to penetrate Natasha to her very core. 

 

“Hello, Natalia,” he drawls, his voice thick with that same Russian accent she never forgets no matter how hard she tries, and for a long moment, she fears she might faint. “It has been too long.”

 

Then he’s stepping inside before she can utter a word, his close proximity absolutely stifling as she battles the sickening bile coming up her throat, barely having the presence of mind to shuffle backwards and away even while his grin grows ever wider, more _predatory_. 

 

_I can’t do this_ , she thinks, her brain positively _screaming_ for Wanda to come back, to save her, her earlier reservations be damned. _I can’t do this._

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

They’re sitting on the single couch in the television room now, Natasha cramped on one side and Alexei sunken into the very middle like he owns it, only leaving about a foot of much-needed space between them—Natasha’s feeling dizzy, waves of queasiness roiling through her gut, blackness beginning to cloud her vision, and God, she _needs_ Wanda, needs her _now_ or else she’s not sure she can make it through without going thoroughly mad. 

 

But Wanda’s not here—Alexei is, grinning wickedly at her and telling her skin-crawling things that make her wish she’d blown her brains out when she’d had the chance, anything to make this, right here, _not_ her reality; it’s worse than she’d ever imagined, worse than she’d ever let herself imagine, and she has no one to blame but herself—that’s what hurts worse than anything.

 

“.. What’s wrong, Natalia? Nothing to say?” Alexei’s voice trickles back into reality, and she has to clench her jaw against the urge to turn and vomit on the floor. “I’m disappointed, frankly. Do I have to fuck you again, trigger your memories? Have you forgotten me so easily?”

 

He’s goading her, and she knows it, but she can’t stop herself from choking out: “I thought you were gone.”

 

His lip curl as he shifts closer, close enough she can feel the heat of his body radiating against hers. “How could I forget you, Natalia?” he questions, more to himself than to her, a large hairy hand coming up to stroke at her cheek as she does her very best not to flinch from the contact. 

 

It feels so _wrong_ , his fingers grazing warmly against her face, the heat of him soaking easily into her—she wants _Wanda_ ; _Wanda’s_ touch, not _his_ , wants Wanda’s fingers warm on her skin and Wanda’s body nestling against hers… not _his_. 

 

“Stop,” she whispers, even as she knows it’s a useless endeavor, even as everything within her practically screams at her not to bother, even as she stops to wonder why the hell she’d try saying such a thing when she knows damn well it wouldn’t make a bloody difference. 

 

And rather quickly, she knows why. 

 

(If she’s honest with herself, she’s known it for a long time now.)

 

She knows why it feels like the first time Alexei used her, why it hurts like she has something to lose now—why Wanda’s smile is the only thing she can think of rather than dissociating herself entirely until Alexei finishes taking her. 

 

It’s because of Wanda, because she’s been carrying Wanda around in the depths of her bones from the day they met, because she doesn’t want to die anymore if it means she’ll risk leaving Wanda behind—and really, that just serves to make the whole thing that much more agonizing. 

 

“I thought we were past all that unpleasantness, hm?” Alexei muses with a chuckle, still stroking tenderly at her jawline, and Natasha’s chest feels like it’s caving in upon itself. “You know you can’t deny me darling—you never have.”

 

She grits her teeth. “It’s different now.”

 

At that, Alexei laughs, cruel and unrestrained. 

 

“Is that really what you believe, Natalia?” he asks, and his hands are already thumbing the hemline of her hoodie, rucking it up to expose her trembling upper half—she’s paralyzed, unable to move, unable to stop it from happening even as she wishes she could, wishes she could save herself for Wanda because she really _really_ doesn’t want to go yet, not when there’s still so much for her to discover, like Wanda’s favorite color or the thing she wants most in life or her favorite childhood memory, or—

 

“Clearly, you’ve grown selfishly back into old habits in my absence. I suppose I’ll just have to train you again, hm?” He leans closer, his breath warm against her neck as a spastic shudder racks her body. "And believe me, darling—I’m going to enjoy every min—"

 

Suddenly, the door is broken inwards with a _Crash!_ , scarlet energy circling the air; at the same moment, Alexei curls his forearm around her throat in the space of a second, tucking her tightly against his torso and successfully cutting off her air supply entirely as Wanda steps carefully through the mangled doorway, Pietro following behind her, matching murderous looks on both their faces. 

 

Relief seeps through Natasha’s body even as terror overtakes her, terror for Wanda and Pietro, for the people she’s grown to care for so desperately in such a short amount of time, because God, she can’t live with herself if Alexei gets them, too. 

 

Her? Fine. 

 

But not them. _Never_ them. 

 

“Friends of yours, are they?” Alexei inquires gratingly, his lips brushing up against the shell of her ear with every accented word; she doesn’t respond, just pulls with all her strength at the strong forearm currently mashing her wind pipe with little success. “Enhanced, too… _Very_ interesting."

 

“Get away from her,” Wanda practically snarls, cobalt-blue eyes flashing a venomous shade of red—it’s like nothing Natasha has ever seen before while she gasps for air—it’s alarming, chilling to the bone and… kind of hot, actually. 

 

_Focus, you idiot!_ her brain screams, and Natasha blinks rapidly, attempting to return to reality. 

 

“Wanda,” she manages, her tone horribly strangled and hoarse. “Pl-Please go.” 

 

“Ah, I see,” Alexei observes, black spots beginning to dance in Natasha’s vision as his grip tightens mercilessly. “She’s the reason you’ve become so… disobedient, is she not?” Natasha doesn’t respond, _can’t_ respond—she can feel her face turning red while a weakened wheeze escapes her, the blackness enveloping her in nothing, her trembling body growing weak in Alexei’s grip. 

 

“So, _you’re_ to blame,” he marvels, eyeing Wanda up and down with a newfound interest—Wanda, for her part, just growls, her irises still a blazing hue of red (though, to be fair, Natasha isn’t quite sure what she’s imagining now and what’s real, what with Alexei’s iron-clad grip currently choking her into blackness). “And is that a Sokovian accent I detect? Von Strucker will be _so_ pleased when I tell him the good news.”

 

Natasha heaves for one last breath against Alexei but doesn’t get it, feels darkness surrounding her, can only just barely see the flash of uninhibited fear on Wanda’s features, the way she steps slightly back with a look on her face like she’s seen a ghost, Pietro mirroring her panic. 

 

And then… nothing. Darkness. 

 

Natasha had never embraced something so terrifying so willingly before. 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

She wakes with a splitting headache, one that makes her wistful for a searing hangover, or maybe a severe concussion, or possibly an acid trip gone horribly wrong—anything that isn't... whatever _this_ is, because it’s bloody awful. 

 

Her throat is dry, her senses dulled (and _not_ in the good way), her eyesight bleary and pained in the light of early morning—it takes her a long moment to realize it, but she’s laid back in her bed and there’s someone beside her propped upright against the headboard, someone clutching a slumped Natasha tightly to her chest, someone who smells like cinnamon and flowers and—

 

_Wanda_.

 

Immediately, Natasha turns to snuggle closer, her head still throbbing something awful—but it’s better with Wanda here, somehow; it doesn’t hurt as much. 

 

“You came,” she mumbles happily into Wanda’s shirt (the Россия hoodie—she’s still wearing it, Natasha notices dazedly), heedless of the sharp intake of breath the girl takes in response. 

 

“I did,” she replies after a long moment, warm and soft and all _Wanda_ —it’s perfect; it’s precisely what Natasha needs right now, even after—

 

Alexei. 

 

She stiffens. 

 

_Shit_.

 

She’s still weak and her vision is rather hazy, but she moves to sit upright all the same, moves to twist out of Wanda’s solid grip even as the girl’s arms tighten around her. 

 

“Tash, Tash, hey,” she coaxes, the words warm and gentle against her scalp. “What’s wrong, hon? Talk to me—"

 

“Alexei,” Natasha gasps out, her chest constricting until she’s gasping for air, her body trembling with fear. “H-He's h-here, y-you need to leave, _now_ , he-he—"

 

“Shh, shh, shh,” Wanda interjects tenderly, stroking patterns into Natasha's hipbones, exposed over the waistband of her leggings—Natasha forces herself to relax into it, to trust Wanda… because she does. Trust Wanda, that is. “He’s gone.”

 

Natasha’s heart clenches in her chest even as a wave of crippling relief rises within her. “Wh-What do you mean he’s ‘gone’?”

 

“She means he ran off,” comes a voice from the doorway, low and accented like Wanda’s… Pietro, she concludes—sure enough, he’s there leaning against the doorframe in Nike joggers and a T-shirt, his hazel eyes hardened and angry even as he flashes her a tired smile. 

 

“I would have hunted him down, but…” he trails off, looking adorably rueful, a light blush beginning to tinge his pale cheeks. “Well, you had us worried.”

 

At that, Natasha’s eyes burn with unshed tears. “Of course,” she croaks out through her battered throat, the words gravelly and dry. “We’re friends, right?”

 

Pietro’s blush deepens, and Natasha’s chest blooms with warmth. “I—Y-Yes. Friends.”

 

Natasha nods against Wanda’s chest, relishing in the smooth circles the girl rubs into the skin of her hipbones. 

 

“Thank you,” she murmurs into Wanda before turning her drowsy gaze on Pietro, too. “You, too—thank you.” 

 

“Just—get better, okay?” Pietro intones shyly, a hand coming up to scratch at the platinum-blonde hair on his scalp, sharp cheekbones flaming.

 

Natasha quirks a brow but nods again, allowing her bemused expression to show. “Will do, bud.”

 

“I—Okay,” he stumbles out, then fidgets in place like he’s not quite sure what to do with himself—a moment later, he’s stalking off down the hall, mumbling something under his breath about “I’ll leave you two to do your.. thing” as he goes. 

 

“Adorable,” Natasha states lazily, when Pietro is safely out of earshot. 

 

Wanda chuckles above her, and the sound reverberates through Natasha’s being in the most exquisite of ways. “He has his moments.”

 

They’re silent for a moment after that—it’s comfortable, Natasha thinks; safe. 

 

But a second later she’s shifting in Wanda’s embrace, moving to sit upright across from her, though draping her hands atop Wanda’s to keep them in place upon her hips. 

 

“Thank you,” she whispers out quietly, like it’s a secret. 

 

Wanda smiles, and it’s positively _radiant_ —cerulean-blue eyes sparkling with sincerity, full pink lips curved in such a way as to make Natasha’s heart skip a beat (or many beats, really). 

 

“I will always come for you, Natasha,” she answers, raw and _honest_ —Natasha has to blink away the tears for fear of ruining the moment. 

 

Still, she can’t help herself from asking, “Y-You will?” in a painfully vulnerable tone, hating herself for showing such weakness almost immediately as she stares hard at her fingers in her lap, cheeks burning. 

 

A second later, there’s a finger under her chin, _Wanda’s_ finger, gently guiding her gaze back up, her heart stopping at the look of pure affection in Wanda’s eyes. 

 

“Always.”

 

Natasha doesn’t know quite how it happens, or who moves first, but a moment passes and they’re kissing, lips pressed firmly, _desperately_ , against one another’s—it’s a pathetically short time before Natasha breaks, lips parting with an involuntary moan escaping her throat… Though, it’s rather quickly intercepted by Wanda slipping her tongue gently past Natasha’s lips, seemingly spurred on by the redhead’s eager groan of approval. 

 

It’s like… being devoured, Natasha thinks, in the most delectable kind of way—Wanda’s tongue sliding against hers, the kiss growing more desperate, more _hungry_ ; a moment later they’re forced to finally break away for air, gasping against each other’s lips, sharing heated breaths in their blessedly close proximity, Natasha’s heart beating rapidly in her chest as if she’s just run a full-length marathon.

 

It doesn’t last for long, though, their momentary separation—Natasha only lasts about half a second before she’s lunging forward again to capture Wanda’s lips again in a fervent kiss that grows increasingly more charged, more earnest with every second, Natasha’s arms wrapped tightly around Wanda’s neck, the Sokovian girl’s fingers tracing sinfully at her waistband and—

 

“Shit,” Wanda gasps breathily into their kiss, her pupils blown wide with desire. “We—" She’s cut off by another insistent kiss from Natasha “—We should stop.”

 

“I agree,” Natasha hums before kissing her again, the feeling of Wanda’s tongue dragging torturously slow against hers positively addicting, the brunette girl ripping another unbidden moan from her battered throat as the nips teasingly at Natasha’s bottom lip, the sensation mildly painful and unequivocally pleasurable all in one. 

 

“Natasha,” Wanda whines, though it’s rather off-put by the way she leans in to plant another kiss on Natasha’s swollen red lips. “—We should _really_ —“

 

“AAAAAAHHHHHHH!” Pietro’s alarmed shriek has them rapidly parting and whirling to face the poor boy, who looks utterly distraught as he stands gaping in the doorway, hands fisting locks of silvery hair and—

 

“Shit,” Natasha curses under her breath. “Pietro—“

 

“I’m calling Clint!” he squeaks out, stumbling backwards and almost tripping over his own feet. “I—I—Oh my—Clint, I need Clint, I—"

 

His frantic words trail off as his uneven footfalls recede down the hall, and Natasha bites her kiss-swollen lip _hard_ to keep from laughing. 

 

Wanda, for her part, looks well and truly gobsmacked, brows raised and eyes hysterically wide. 

 

There’s a brief silence.

 

“I have to do the sex talk with him now, don’t I?” Wanda chokes out eventually, an absolutely comical look of horror on her pretty features. 

 

Natasha smirks, then heaves an overly dramatic sigh. “They grow up so fast,” she laments, sucking her lips in to hold back her laughter as Wanda pouts at her. 

 

“Not nice,” the girl grumbles, though her lips quirk at the edges. 

 

Natasha tilts her head, a playful frown on her features. “Shall I kiss it better?”

 

Instantly, Wanda brightens with an enthusiastic nod, eyes gleaming in the morning sunlight. “I think that would help very much.”

 

Natasha rolls her eyes but obliges, already leaning closer. 

 

“Dork,” she mutters out before her lips are quickly occupied by a warm kiss that sets every nerve ending alight with heat, with _pleasure_ , and she decides she doesn’t care about the rest of it, doesn’t care that they’ve probably just scarred poor Pietro for life, doesn’t care about Alexei or Yevgeni or any of it because she’s _here_ , pressed against Wanda in the most exquisite of ways—and really, there’s absolutely no reason for her to be focused on anything but the euphoria of her current state right now, nestled up in bed with the girl she lov—

 

_Shit_. 

 

With the girl she _loves_. 

 

_Shit_. 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗


	34. sparky pt. 2 (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda and Pietro try to figure out how Alexei fits into the bigger picture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another working chapter title: captain eyepatch pt. 2 ?
> 
> lol we'll see
> 
> so i'm in hawaii right now for a family reunion (i basically grew up here) for the next week, so i'll try to keep up with writing and stuff but we only just now got wifi at the house we've rented, so no guarantees....
> 
> hope you like:)

Wanda’s sure she’s never hated the snake people so much in her _life_ —because right when things with Natasha even out, right when there’s kisses and whispered confessions and warmth on both ends, right when they’re on the edge of falling in _love_ , the snake people come back somehow. 

 

And unfortunately, she’s not talking about the hospital—unfortunately, it seems that Alexei is a piece of it all, too, and that reality is enough to make Wanda’s gut twist painfully with uneasiness and dread. 

 

Because what was it Alexei had said? _“Von Strucker will be so pleased when I tell him the good news…”_

 

_Fuck_. 

 

Almost immediately after they’d arrived at Tesseract High (courtesy of an almost worryingly collected Natasha at the wheel), Wanda drags a wide-eyed Pietro off to the side in front of the steps, placing a warm kiss on Natasha’s cheek before telling the girl and Clint to go on ahead, that the twins will catch up later. 

 

Then, she’s dropping her gentle smile and allowing the poignant worry she feels in her chest to show on her features—it all comes rushing back and she sways on her feet, momentarily dizzy under the weight of their current situation (which, in case anyone was wondering, falls quite squarely in the _‘We’re so egregiously fucked, it’s not even funny’_ category). 

 

“We need a plan,” she tells him, working hard to keep her voice from trembling even as chills run rampant throughout her entire being.

 

Pietro bites his lip and nods, worry and uncertainty clear in his hazel-greenish eyes—it only serves to make the sickening feeling in her stomach all the worse. 

 

“Do we… Need to—" he stops himself, a troubled look on his features while he stares emphatically at Wanda, as if she has even the faintest clue as to what he's talking about. 

 

“Need to what?”

 

“You know,” Pietro grumbles, ducking his head, cheeks flushed. (Wanda doesn’t.) “Kill him.”

 

An icy grip clenches tightly around Wanda’s heart. _Shit_. 

 

“I don’t—I don’t know, Pietro,” she replies after a long moment, her words slow and deliberate. “We could be too late.”

 

His brow furrows. “Too late for what?”

 

“If Alexei really does know von Strucker, he might have already informed him of our presence here.”

 

Pietro’s eyes widen. “Shit.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Does, um… " he trails off, shifting anxiously on his feet. “Does Natasha know?”

 

Wanda pauses, guilt curling in her chest. “No.”

 

“Are you going to tell her?”

 

“Maybe."

 

“Wanda… “

 

“What?”

 

Pietro heaves a sigh, though his eyes remain attentive—knowing. “You love her, yes?”

 

Wanda freezes. “I—I don’t—" she cuts herself off with a frustrated huff of air, a deep flush tinging her cheeks at her sudden inability to speak. “Yes.”

 

Pietro nods, his face uncharacteristically solemn. “Then you should tell her.”

 

“What if telling her gets her hurt?”

 

“Well, how do you know that not telling her will _not_ get her hurt as well?”

 

Wanda sighs, rubbing at her temples with exhaustion. “I don’t,” she muttered. 

 

“Exactly,” Pietro agrees, looking far too pleased with himself for Wanda’s liking. “But first, I will speak to her.”

 

Wanda’s brows furrow, a crease forming between them. “What?”

 

“She’s your… person. I must threaten her so she never hurts you.”

 

“Pietro… " Wanda laments, exasperated beyond words—though there’s a kernel of warmth blooming in her chest, the one that spreads so serenely into her very bones whenever Pietro’s like this, ridiculously overprotective, unfailingly noble in his love for her.

 

(She loves him more than anything.)

 

Pietro just narrows his eyes, looking rather determined. “It must be done.”

 

“Not really, though.”

 

Pietro gives her a look, one that screams _“I’m not letting this go,”_ and a minute later, she relents. 

 

“Fine. She’s going to kick your ass, though."

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

They’re walking together towards Wanda’s first block class (Conceptual Physics—they were already late, unfortunately, the late bell having rung a good 3 minutes ago), when a loud _“Psssst!”_ has them whirling around in the empty halls, eyes narrowing with suspicion when there's no one to be found as a source for the noise.

 

Then a door is promptly cracking open, the door of what looks to be the janitor’s closet (?), and a head pokes out—none other than Tony Stark’s, regrettably, an urgent but vaguely playful look on his boyish features, brown eyes twinkling mischievously. 

 

Immediately, Wanda stiffens, and she feels Pietro do the same beside her. 

 

“What?” she hisses back, irritation creeping into her tone. 

 

He pouts, thin bottom lip jutting out in a way Wanda might have found cute were it anyone else. 

 

“C’mon!” A hand pops out, beckoning for them to join him in the closet. 

 

Wanda resists the urge to smack herself in the forehead from sheer exasperation. 

 

“ _C’mon!_ ” Tony repeats again, brows furrowed. 

 

Wanda rolls her eyes, stepping to place herself just before Pietro (who is undoubtedly on the verge of a messy implosion at the mere sight of Tony Stark trying his luck with them again). 

 

“Why?” she demands, fighting to keep her cool—she has to be levelheaded here, she knows, because Pietro’s not going to do it for her. 

 

Tony’s pout deepens, and he scrunches his features in a thoughtful expression. “Von Strucker, okay?” he tells them in a muted tone. “I’m trying to help.”

 

_Shit_. 

 

Wanda clenches her jaw—well, now there _really_ isn’t a choice. 

 

Grabbing blindly behind her, she curls a hand around Pietro’s wrist, striding them briskly over to the closet, fighting the urge to blast Tony Stark at the satisfied grin on his features as he swings the door wide open to accommodate them. 

 

_Fuck_. 

 

Moments later, they're both inside, forming something of a triangular constellation in the cramped dimly-lit closet (probably 5’ x 5’ at most with a single dark-yellow light bulb hanging from the ceiling), a strong stench of lemony bleach in the air, Pietro’s frustrated huffs echoing throughout the small cemented space. 

 

“What,” Pietro snarls. “Do. You. _Want?!_ " Wanda flinches at the venom in every word as her twin spits them distastefully out. 

 

Tony heaves a sigh, crossing his arms indignantly against his chest. “Look, Sparky, I’m trying to help.”

 

Wanda has to gulp down a giggle rising in her throat at that—but then she's sobering her expression and eyeing Tony with guarded curiosity, because there’s a great deal here that’s not adding up, and really, that’s something that she and Pietro cannot afford right now, not if they can help it. 

 

“And how do you plan to do that?” she asks monotonously, brow quirked. 

 

Tony doesn’t miss a beat: “Von Strucker is a big-shot associate of Stark Industries, okay? And it came over through on the network from some of the overseas shareholders that he’s found his enhanced experiments, okay? That’s you.”

 

“We know that, thanks,” she quips back before she can stop herself, white-hot irritation rising in her chest even as she knows it’s counter-productive to indulge in it. 

 

Tony, for his part, has the decency to look at least the slightest bit rueful in response, ducking his head slightly and jamming his hands in either pocket of his jeans.

 

“Look,” he asserts after a long moment, his voice devoid of aggression—pleading, almost. “I want to warn you guys cause von Strucker flew out early this morning. He’s coming here to look for you guys.”

 

Wanda thinks she stops breathing then for a solid minute. “Fuck,” she breathes out dazedly, head spinning. 

 

Pietro’s snarl just deepens, and Wanda doesn’t have the energy to chastise him for it anymore. “Did you do this?”

 

“What?” Tony looks taken aback; offended. 

 

Pietro squares his shoulders, hazel irises flashing electric blue in the tiny space. “Did you tell him about us?”

 

“No,” Tony answers firmly, leaving little room for argument. “We’re not exactly besties, and I know that that’s on me, but still, I wouldn’t do that to you guys. Ever.”

 

Wanda’s rapid heart beat thunders in her ears; she can barely hear Tony’s explanation, the sincerity in his voice… _Fuck_ , they’re so screwed. 

 

“He’s going to kill us,” she whispers out numbly, only realizing a second later that she’s said it out loud when both Pietro and Tony whip around to face her, equally alarmed looks on both their faces. 

 

Pietro nods after a second, his earlier frustrations fading to the background as a contemplative look flashes across his features. “We need to run,” he says lowly, eyes burning into Wanda’s, and she wants to cry. 

 

“What about Natasha?”

 

Pain flits through her twin’s soft hazel irises. “It might be safer if we run.”

 

“It won’t,” Wanda blurts before she can truly think it through, on the fritz of utter panic. “What about Alexei? If Tony’s telling the truth, which, no offense,” she flashes him a look, and the Stark boy just shrugs inconsequentially back, “then that means Alexei’s part of this, too.”

 

“So?”

 

Wanda glares. “So, we need to protect her.”

 

“Awwww,” Tony coos, and both twins turn to face him with murderous glowers twisting their features—after a moment, he drops his dreamy look, holding his hands up at his sides in mock surrender. “Alright, chill, chill… I just thought it was cute, okay?”

 

“Shut up,” “Shut up,” both Pietro and Wanda growl in unison, and Tony seems to shrink slightly further into himself. 

 

Then they’re turning back to face each other, a desperate look on Wanda’s features, an almost defeated expression on Pietro’s. 

 

“No more running, then?” 

 

Wanda nods, jaw set. “No more running.”

 

“And!” Tony chimes in jovially. “I can help!”

 

Pietro instantly shoots him another glare that makes him shrivel again, but Wanda just tilts her head at the boy, a vaguely pensive look in her eye. 

 

“What do you mean, ‘help'?” she inquires, and—

 

“Wanda,” Pietro interjects derisively, his chestnut eyes wide and incredulous.

 

Wanda ignores him. “Speak,” she tells Tony. 

 

The boy rolls his eyes. “You know, I can see why Natasha likes you now. You’re both very… prickly.” Wanda pinches the bridge of her nose with exhaustion, sighing heavily. "Like a cactus.”

 

“What is a cactus?” Pietro asks from beside her, a far-away look in his eyes, and Wanda wants to smack herself. 

 

(Or them. Preferably them.)

 

“I’m going to blast both of you through the walls,” Wanda grumbles, already sorely regretting the substantial chunk of Physics she’s missed thus far. 

 

Instantly, Tony shakes his head. “You need to keep a low profile, especially now, with von Strucke—”

 

“You don’t tell us what to do,” Pietro snaps, poison dripping from his tone. 

 

Wanda sighs. “Piet—"

 

“Actually, Mr. Sparkles,” _Jesus Christ_ , Wanda thinks as Tony steps up towards her twin, crowding his space, “I’m your best chance of escaping this bad guy alive, so maybe you should think about showing me some _respect_ —"

 

A loud _Creeeeaak!_ reverberates through the space, effectively cutting Tony off mid-sentence as the door is abruptly flung wide open, causing the three of them to be rendered nearly blind by the sudden exposure to the bright fluorescent lighting of the hallway—in the center of the doorway, a dark broad-shouldered silhouette stands… and even though Wanda can’t see his face no matter how hard she tries, she knows instinctively that it holds a look of profound discontent, because everything about the bald mystery man’s power stance positively screams _“Don’t fuck with me,”_ and _“The last time I smiled was 1963,”_ and _“I probably own a ring-tailed and vaguely passive-aggressive cat.”_

 

Okay, so maybe that last one isn’t nearly as relevant to their current situation—but seriously, Wanda would bet money he has one, and furthermore, that he’s named it something ridiculous. 

 

But anyways. 

 

The scary man is standing there, his entire appearance darkened by the shadows, and by the way Tony had yipped at an entirely unnatural octave upon being found by the scary-looking person, Wanda knows they’re fucked. Bad.

 

She really should have just gone to class.

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

As it turned out, the man who apprehended the three of them in the janitor’s closet was none other than Mr. Nick Fury, principal at Tesseract High. He had dark skin, a permanent scowl on his unamused features, and (Wanda assumed, given the no-nonsense matte-black eye patch he wore) was also missing an eye. 

 

Literally—an entire _eye_. 

 

That was a bit mind-boggling for Wanda to conceptualize. 

 

But anyways—Principal Fury had ordered them down to his office, which was a decently-sized space with a sleek wooden desk housing a gold-plated name tag and what looked to be an exceptionally pretentious cube-shaped paperweight with a bluish glow sitting atop a thin stack of student files. Other personal amenities included: a dull white mug of coffee, a polished titanium safe on the back counter (maybe 18” x 6”), and literally nothing else—no family pictures, no cute little doodads, nothing that really hinted at any semblance of a personality. It was… unsettling.

 

They’d had to pull up an additional chair when they’d entered (there were only two cushioned chairs placed across from the desk)—now, a smirking Tony is situating himself squarely between Wanda and Pietro as Principal Fury looks on with purely terrifying disinterest, and a second later he’s opening his obnoxious mouth and ruining everything before it even has the chance to begin: “So, I know what you’re thinking,” he relates conversationally, entirely unfazed by Principal Fury’s unrelenting glower, “and, no—this was _not_ an attempted threesome.”

 

Needless to say, they’re each slapped with two months of detention (which makes four months total for Tony), and for what feels like the billionth time since attending Tesseract (but is only probably more like the second or third), Wanda regrets not hex-blasting Tony Stark sky-high when she’d been given the chance.

 

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	35. one last prayer (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha goes to detention like always, and is rather surprised to find Pietro and Wanda there, too.
> 
> It devolves from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okayyy this update is short because i'm going home tomorrow and i now finally have the ending more or less mapped out sooo
> 
> hope you like :)

It’s 3:05pm, and like every day this week, Natasha drags her feet down the hall to detention with scarcely-concealed resignation and poorly-suppressed discontent written all across her features… except this time, it’s different when she opens the door and shuffles in. 

 

This time, _Wanda’s_ there. Pietro, too. 

 

_What the fuck?_

 

Next, she takes note of the fact that Pietro and Tony have elected to sit as far away from each other as humanly possible, with Tony in the front left corner of the desks about five feet from Mr. Ward’s statue-still figure and Pietro in the back right corner closest to the door, arms crossed tightly against his chest and a petulant pout on his angular features. 

 

Tony, for his part, just looks smug and aloof as ever in designer jeans and a undoubtedly expensive black sweater, though there’s a subtle curl to his lip that tells Natasha he’s about one errant comment away from throwing down with the Sokovian boy in the corner. 

 

Wanda is sitting somewhere in between the two, though noticeably closer to Pietro—and she also looks rather miffed with a clenched jaw and abnormally straight posture, drumming her fingers on the desk and glowering at Tony Stark like she’s about to hex-blast the boy into space. 

 

… And as much as Natasha would like to see that, she knows it’d be the farthest thing from productive, not to mention it’d probably land her with a hell of a lot more detention and one-on-one face time with a very unamused Principal Fury—so, in a startling change of pace, she decides to be the responsible one, seating herself squarely in the middle of Tony and Wanda and pointedly ignoring the taken aback look she gets from both twins in response. 

 

_What are you doing?_ She’s the farthest thing from startled when she hears Wanda’s voice in her thoughts—she knows this was coming, one way or another. 

 

_Can you hear my thoughts if I do this?_ she asks wordlessly back on a whim without turning around to look at the girl, not quite sure—

 

_Yes._

 

Well, then. 

 

Shutting her eyes, she concentrates intently on what she wants to say. _Tony’s not the enemy here, Wanda, even if he is a huge pain in the ass._

 

_That’s an understatement._

 

A smile quirks at Natasha’s lips. _How’d the two of you get here?_

 

She thinks she hears Wanda let out a tired sigh behind her at that, but she’s not quite sure. _Tony._

 

_I figured as much. How bad?_

 

Wanda ignores her question. _Why are you defending him?_

 

_He didn’t mean to hurt your parents._

 

_How can you possibly know that?_ There’s anger in her delicate voice now, a sort of steel that cuts Natasha to her very core. 

 

And still, she persists, not quite knowing why she’s doing it, why she’s gambling the only person she’s ever maybe (definitely) loved for the likes of Tony Stark. _We’ve talked, okay? He didn’t know._

 

_Did you find that out before or after you got detention together for reasons you still will not tell me about?_

 

_First off, we’ve been kind of busy, okay? It’s not that I won’t tell you—we just haven’t had the time. Second… Are you jealous?_

 

Silence. Natasha waits for a minute or so, and still—nothing. 

 

_Wanda?_

 

Again, nothing. 

 

Shit. 

 

_Wanda, please. Answer me?_

 

She doesn’t get a response. 

 

Sighing deeply to herself, she wraps her arms tightly around torso, shuddering as her eyes burn with unshed tears—and still, life goes on. 

 

(That’s probably the worst part.) 

 

Mr. Ward continues reading his book up at the front, the clock mounted on the wall ticks near soundlessly with every passing second, and Natasha can just about feel the burn of the twins’ displeased stares trying to burn holes through the back of her head. 

 

_Fuck_ , the thinks, slumping even further in her seat. 

 

It’s going to be a long two hours. 

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

At 4:04, Mr. Ward stands from his desk and strides briskly out the classroom, presumably for a bathroom break. 

 

The second the door shuts behind him, Natasha whirls around to eye Wanda with a pleading gaze. “Wanda, I’m sorry, okay?”

 

Wanda just clenches her jaw, a coldness flashing through her ocean-blue eyes that shouldn’t be as powerful as it is, because she looks bloody _adorable_ in skin-tight black leggings and Natasha’s hoodie, but sends a powerful chill down Natasha’s spine all the same. “Why are you defending _him_?” she spits out the last word with palpable distaste, and Natasha can practically feel Tony whipping around with an indignant reply on his tongue even as she wordlessly begs him not to make this any worse. 

 

Still, he hasn’t earned the title of ‘The Most Annoying Person I’ve Ever Met In My Entire Life’ from Natasha for nothing—a second later, he’s launching into a long-winded and rather egomaniacal rant from behind her: “Okay, _first_ of all, Twinkle-Toes, you’re lucky I’m trying to _help_ you. And what do I get in return? You’re all going to be _dead_ without me—"

 

“Is that a threat?” Pietro snarls, abruptly standing from his desk, his chair making a rather unpleasant screeching noise across the linoleum flooring as he does. 

 

Tony stands too, a petulant sneer etched into his features, and Natasha resists the urge to slam her head down on the desktop. “I know you’re not all that bright, Speedy McGee—"

 

Natasha turns to Wanda, mouthing _"Speedy McGee?”_ —Wanda’s still angry, clearly (if the heated flush on her cheeks is anything to go by), but her lips quirk upwards in response, and that’s more than enough for now. 

 

“—but get this through your thickheaded skull, if you can manage it: I’m. Trying. To. _Help_.”

 

“Bullshit,” Wanda interjects, still seated, a fiery look in her cerulean irises and venom dripping from her scarily calm tone—a thrill of fear pierces Natasha’s chest. “You took _everything_ from us.”

 

Tony groans, throwing up his hands with clear exasperation. “I didn’t _know_ , okay? I’m sorry but I didn’t—”

 

“You’re ‘sorry’?” Pietro mocks, sidestepping to weave through the array of desks and closer to Tony, jaw clenched so tightly Natasha fears it might shatter altogether. “Our parents are _dead_ because of you!”

 

“And I—" Tony stops himself, his voice breaking as he ducks his head shamefully, cheeks ruddy and flushed. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t _know_ , and I know that’s not going to bring anyone back, but I’m—I’m really, _really_ fucking sorry.”

 

Pietro blinks for a moment in place just beside Natasha’s desk, anger forgotten—then his anger is returning in spades, fiery rage blazing in hazel eyes and lips curled into a snarl. 

 

“How are we supposed to trust that?” Wanda asks suddenly before Pietro can speak, her voice layered with steel and warning. “How are we supposed to trust _you_ ?”

 

“I—" Tony starts and then halts himself, whipping his head to the side and squinting his eyes dramatically, as if listening for something. “Do you guys hear that?”

 

Natasha sighs. “Don’t fuck around, Tony.”

 

“I’m not!” he protests, then begins to eye Mr. Ward’s empty desk with overt suspicion, like it’s been hiding the secrets of life this whole time. “Is it just me, or has it been a really long time since Mr. Ward went to the ‘bathroom’?” he asks, using air quotes, his voice trembling slightly.

 

In almost comical unison, Natasha and the twins all whirl around in place to eye the clock on the back wall. _4:14_. 

 

Mr. Ward has been gone for _10 minutes_. 

 

“Dammit,” Natasha hisses under her breath, already on high alert for—

 

_Bang!_

 

“Shit!” Pietro yelps, and Tony recoils violently in place—Natasha goes stock still, ears ringing. _Was that a—?_

 

“That’s a fucking _gunshot!_ ” Tony nearly screams, collapsing to the floor and crawling under his desk like it might save him from getting pumped full of lead. 

 

_Bang! Bang!_ More gunshots, and another _chkchkchkchkchkchk_ -ing sound persists, like a fully-automated assault rifle equipped with a high-quality suppressor, chunks of plaster beginning to fly around the room as bullet holes litter the brick-reinforced walls—so, there’s more than one of them. Lovely. 

 

And through it all, Natasha is frozen in her seat, statuesque in the vicious hail of gunfire, oblivious to the screams of Tony, of Pietro, of _Wanda_. 

 

“NATASHA!” Wanda screams, but Natasha only scarcely hears her, only feels the heat of the bullets whizzing around her, the deafening noise of utter destruction and pandemonium as Death draws nigh—and all she can feel is peace. 

 

Blissful surrender. 

 

The end— _finally_ , the end. 

 

She tilts her head back and closes her eyes, allowing the sounds of gunfire and hysteria to fade into the background, warmth spreading through her chest as she waits for the bullets to rip through her chest, waits for Death to set her free, waits for something to give… Because she doesn’t want to fight it right now, is so fucking tired of fighting it when she never seems to win, and God, she’ll take whatever she can get if it ensures she doesn’t have to live like this anymore—even if that means not living, period. 

 

In her head, she tells Wanda sorry, and Clint and Pietro, too—but as far as she’s concerned, she’s gone, or at least pretty damn close, and that’s enough. 

 

That’s enough. 

 

She barely feels herself slipping into unconsciousness—what’s more, she’s sure that even if she’d noticed she’d be far too exhausted to fight it anyhow.

 

But on the edge of staticky blackness, she asks God for one more thing (even though she’s never been a believer and still doesn’t intend on starting), one last wish on what she’s sure is her blessedly premature deathbed: _Get Wanda out alive_. 

 

A second later, everything goes dark.

 

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	36. praying (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of chaos, Wanda and Pietro are scrambling to get Tony and Natasha to safety. 
> 
> They pick up Clint along the way, and from there, it's a mad rush to figure things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter... would love to know your thoughts :)

Okay, so maybe Wanda wasn’t exactly expecting day one of detention to be a “cakewalk,” as Americans are so fond of saying, but really—gunshots and pandemonium midway through the most mind-numbing (and pointless) punishment she'd ever endured? _Seriously?_

 

She froze in place when she'd heard the first shot, her mind immediately plagued by bad things and worse times in Sokovia where Pietro and her were constantly hunted, forced to run the delicate line between life and death for days on end without reprieve, living a sort of survivalist existence that can scarcely be called a ‘life’ in any sense of the word. 

 

The second gunshot brought her back, her scattered thoughts belatedly registering a screaming Tony scampering under his desk (a sight she might’ve found rather funny under drastically different circumstances), a likewise stunned Pietro sitting just behind her, and a stock-still Natasha before her, the girl unwavering even as bullets and plaster rained in a hail of gunfire all around. 

 

She flinched when the _chkchkchkchkchkchk!_ of a fully-automatic machine gun layered the sounds of isolated gunshots (likely from a shotgun or pistol—or possibly a sniper rifle, too, she supposed, but that was unlikely), and even as luminescent wisps of blue swept through the moderately-lit classroom space, Natasha still didn’t move. 

 

She screamed, desperate and unrestrained, the sound horrible and almost painful to her own ears—and still, nothing. Natasha sat firmly in place, her entire body pulled taut like a bowstring, unflinching in the face of certain death.

 

It scared the hell out of her. 

 

_Get Tony. I’ll take care of Natasha. Meet me under the beech tree_ , she told her twin, forcing herself to stand and focus on an energy shield surrounding both Natasha and her—and just in time, too; a second later, the crimson sphere shook violently as it absorbed an entire clip of semi-automatic gunfire, the resultant sounds positively deafening to Wanda’s ears. 

 

A second later, there was a dark figure in the doorway—then two, then three, all clad in black cargo pants and bulletproof vests with a sickeningly familiar logo stamped on the chest, infiltrating the space with assault rifles and handguns, all looking rather out of place amongst the array of desks in the high school classroom. 

 

Wanda scrambled to Natasha even as the three men grew closer, their gunfire wreaking havoc on her concentration with every collision on the surface of her improvised shield, like a constant ear-splitting shriek in her head—she was surprised her ears weren’t bleeding, it was so painful. 

 

She reached Natasha a second later, feeling the integrity of her shield waning with every passing moment—the girl was out cold, her head lolled to the side, and—

 

_Shit_. 

 

She was bleeding heavily through her V-neck tee, the cotton-white fabric stained a lurid red at the shoulder, and Wanda swore her heart stopped.

 

She scrabbled for purchase on Natasha’s body, her hands marred with sticky blood ( _Natasha’s_ blood), anything that could make this go away, eventually landing with two fingers on Natasha’s pulse at the hollow of her neck—nothing. 

 

_Nothing_. 

 

She’s not sure what happened then—something snapped. _She_ snapped. 

 

Her vision whited out, scarlet red seeping into the edges; she thinks a scream escaped her then but she’s not sure, just knows that she felt a pulse of pure unrestrained _energy_ escaping her in a powerful wave that nearly shattered her bones, but she didn’t _care_ about that, not when Natasha wasn’t breathing and Wanda might lose her and nothing else mattered if Wanda lost her. 

 

It was a solid minute (though it felt like a hell of a lot longer) before the blinding glow of bright-red energy began to subside, leaving Wanda and Natasha shivering together in the middle of utter chaos, the desks having vaporized along with a good portion of the wall (they could see into the hallway and through to the adjoining classrooms), the rancid smell of charred flesh in the air as Wanda eyed the piles of ash around them with a unique mixture of horror and relief.

 

They were dead.

 

She’d _killed_ them. 

 

She can barely remember getting back to the meet spot, getting Natasha out of the classroom and seeing Pietro tapping his foot nervously under the beech tree with an unconscious Tony sprawled haphazardly in the grass. 

 

She barely remembers Pietro taking them into the woods, deep, where no one would find them (at least for a little while)—and now, they’re here. 

 

Here, with Natasha laid face-up and bleeding on an impressively large felled tree trunk, still unconscious; Tony likewise still dozing (not to mention snoring, _loudly_ ) and sat messily up against said tree trunk on the forest floor; and lastly, Wanda and Pietro, pacing frantically side to side in the clearing, doing their very best to come up with a plan—which isn’t working all that well, because Natasha’s been shot and they’re running for their lives and Natasha’s been _shot_ , and who the _hell_ invited Tony Stark to the goddamned party?

 

(Not that this is much of a party, of course—for anyone. 

 

No, it’s rather the opposite of a party, actually, though Wanda’s not quite sure what that would be.

 

Whatever.

 

The point is, they’re dangling precariously on the edge of “We’re fucked” territory, and unlike all other times she’s been here, Wanda isn’t sure she sees even one conceivable way out that doesn’t involve everyone dying and the snake people emerging victorious.) 

 

“We need to get out of here,” Pietro mumbles frantically, more to himself than anyone else, and still, anger flares immediately in Wanda’s chest. 

 

“No, we need a _hospital_ ,” she snarls, and Pietro freezes in place, turning to shoot her a pointed glower. 

 

“You think we can go to a hospital? You think the snake people won’t find us there?”

 

Wanda glares back. “I don’t _care_. Natasha’s hurt.”

 

Pietro huffs out a strained breath, furious sparks of blue flashing in hazel eyes. “You’re going to get us killed.”

 

“Natasha’s going to die if we don’t _do_ something!” she yells back across the clearing, scarcely registering as a sleeping Tony twitches at her raised voice—though, thankfully, his snoring promptly stops, so that’s something. 

 

Pietro heaves another long breath, eyes still flashing dangerously—though, after a moment, his expression relaxes slightly, though anger still pervades every inch of his being. 

 

“Fine,” he concedes shortly, running a blood-dotted hand through windblown platinum locks and clenching his jaw tightly while he thinks. “We need a plan.”

 

“Agreed,” comes a weak voice from the floor, and they both whirl around to see a droopy-eyed Tony emerging from his shock-induced coma. “I—"

 

“Shut up,” “Shut up,” they both growl in unison, and the ashen-faced boy shrivels on the ground.

 

_Think_ , she tells herself in the infuriating silence, the only sound the cricketing patterns of cicadas in the trees. _Think_. 

 

After a second, Wanda has an idea—it’s half-baked, and probably fucking terrible, but it’s not like they have many other options to choose from. “Clint.”

 

“What?” Pietro frowns, his anger forgotten for a moment as confusion overtakes his features.

 

“ _Clint_.”

 

Pietro furrows a brow. “Clint’s not a doctor.”

 

“Neither are we,” Wanda argues back stubbornly, and Pietro sighs. 

 

“Fine.”

 

Tony pouts, standing to his full height in the well-lit clearing. “No one wants to hear what _I_ —?”

 

“Shut _up_ ,” “Shut _up_ ,” they both snap again, and luckily, he takes the hint this time. 

 

“Do we take him?” Pietro questions after a second, jerking a thumb towards a blessedly silent Tony Stark. 

 

Wanda grits her teeth. “We probably should.”

 

“I don’t like him.”

 

“And you think I do?” she quips back, eyes flashing red, ignoring a mildly-offended-looking Tony off to the side who looks to be on the verge of protesting. 

 

Pietro just nods, conceding defeat, an angry expression on his sharp features. “Fine. Let’s just go.”

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

“I’m not a _fucking_ doctor,” Clint practically screeches in a panicked tone, worry flashing in his eyes as he examines the bloodied wound marring Natasha’s shoulder. 

 

Pietro gives Wanda a meaningful look. “See?”

 

She wants to slap him. “Is there anything you _can_ tell us?”

 

“It’s a through-and-through,” he offers, blinking back tears in his electric blue eyes before darting his gaze back up to eye her. “That’s kind of it.”

 

“Wait a sec,” Tony butts in, oblivious to all the murderous looks he gets in response, gesturing to a prone and heavily bleeding Natasha lying limply on the couch with a dismissive hand. “Isn’t that a good thing, if the bullet’s not still in there? Don’t we just have to clean the wound, stitch her up?”

 

Pietro throws up his hands. “I—"

 

“Fuck if I know,” Clint laments, before a thoughtful look crosses his boyish features. “But… "

 

“But, what?” Wanda asks instantly, sheer desperation seeping into her words. 

 

He sighs. “Daisy’s mom. She knows how to fix this stuff.”

 

Pietro’s gaze hardens. “Oh, _fuck_ n— _Ow!_ ” he complains as Wanda elbows him in the side. 

 

“Then let’s get her there,” she says, undeterred by Pietro’s incredulous stare.

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“Stop it,” Wanda snaps, glaring at her twin. 

 

Her twin just shakes his head. “Wanda—"

 

“I love her,” Wanda blurts before she can stop herself, silently pleading with Pietro to understand. “Okay? I love her.”

 

That shuts him up—after a long and painfully silent moment, he speaks, his tone quiet and defeated. “Okay. Let’s go.”

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

“What the _hell?_ ” Daisy hisses as Clint and Wanda carry a blood-stained and shirtless Natasha through the doorway, Pietro and Tony scrambling frenziedly after them, the group entirely uncaring of a wide-eyed Phil standing at the foot of the steps. 

 

“She’s been shot,” Tony supplies helpfully, his words strained with something that sounds suspiciously close to worry, although Wanda would never be so complacent as to believe such a thing. 

 

Daisy glares at him, though there remains a worried furrow in her brow. “No shit.”

 

“Out of the way,” a new voice enters the mix, stern and uncompromising—it’s Mrs. May dressed in tight black jeans and a black V-neck (in other words, looking by all accounts ready to kick someone’s ass), rushing down the stairs with a med kit tucked tightly under her arm, steely determination in her eyes. Phil immediately does as she says. 

 

“Get her on the table,” she orders next, and they do, Wanda’s muscles aching from the strain, her heart just about shattering at the sight of Natasha bleeding rivulets of blood from her shoulder, soaking the polished wooden tabletop beneath her. 

 

“Can you help her?” she asks, desperate sobs escaping her, tears falling unbidden down her cheeks. 

 

Mrs. May doesn’t answer, just swiftly pulls on a pair of blue latex gloves and spreads her materials out onto the table with clinical efficiency: scissors, a needle, rubbing alcohol, a metallic thread that glints almost menacingly in the well-lit room. 

 

Just then, Natasha begins to struggle atop the table, eyelids fluttering open, whimpered moans escaping her—Wanda thinks she can feel her heart tearing in her chest at the sight. 

 

“Hold her down,” Mrs. May tells them then, and Wanda rushes to obey even as pain lances through her chest, because the most horrible sounds are escaping Natasha’s throat like she’s _pleading_ , pleading for them to stop, pleading to make them leave her alone even as Wand knows damn well that that’s not what she needs right now. 

 

She grips Natasha’s other shoulder and her arm and Clint does the same on the other side (though careful to avoid the wound), her pale skin drenched in a cold sweat, a desperate animalistic cry escaping her that has nausea curling dangerously in Wanda’s gut. 

 

“Shh,” she urges her, stroking at the skin of Natasha's uninjured shoulder, doubtful it’ll help but entirely at a loss as to what else she’s meant to be doing. “Shh, hon, you’re okay. We’re fixing you, okay? You’re going to be just fine.”

 

Natasha just whines in response, floating somewhere between conscious and not, choked gasps escaping her as Wanda bites back tears. 

 

Wanda turns to Mrs. May, uncaring of the sheer desperation marring her features. “Please,” she sobs. “Please, fix her.”

 

Mrs. May nods at that, the movement sharp and stern—then she’s rubbing an alcohol-soaked cloth around the bullet wound, clenching her jaw with every shudder that overtakes Natasha’s limp form. 

 

“Hold her still,” Mrs. May tells them again, her tone uncompromising—wincing to herself, Wanda obeys (Clint does the same across from her), pressing hard into Natasha’s skin until the pressure turns it white (or white-er, at least) under her bloodied hands. 

 

Wanda looks away when Mrs. May leans closer, glinting metallic thread in hand—she doesn’t want to watch this part. She _can’t_ watch this part. 

 

Instead, she turns her gaze skyward and prays—prays even though she doesn’t believe in God and never will, prays that Natasha doesn’t die today, prays that she doesn’t have to say goodbye yet because truthfully, she doesn’t know if she can handle something like that. Not now. Not ever. 

 

Not today. _Please_.

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧


	37. "are you a ninja?" (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha wakes up to a rather chaotic scene in the Johnson-slash-Coulson-slash-May household. 
> 
> It only goes downhill from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so writer's block is kicking my ass right now, which means i can't guarantee the next chapter will be all that soon, but i'm gonna try obviously, and i kinda made myself sit down and write this one over the last few days, and i'm actually okay with how it turned out 
> 
> also, i'm really trying to be careful with this story as i'm wrapping it up, making sure i don't forget any details and all that, so the chapters are already gonna take a little longer as it is.... 
> 
> but anyways
> 
> here's an update; hope you like:)

Natasha wakes to a dull pain in her left shoulder, her mind wreaking havoc on all fronts, her limbs weaker than ever, like she’s just run a full-length marathon without eating breakfast first. 

 

She doesn’t open her eyes for a little while—rather, she lies still upon the hard surface, assessing the situation: increasingly sharp stabs of pain in her shoulder, pounding headache in her skull, a distinctly slowed heartbeat that would explain the comprehensive weakness she feels throughout her entire body. 

 

She can hear someone next to her, off to the right, slow ragged breaths and a calloused hand tightly gripping hers—Clint, she deduces in a matter of seconds. Of _course_ it’s Clint. 

 

A second later, she allows her eyelids to flutter open, reflexively wincing at the brightness of the yellowy lighting above (even if they really aren’t all that bright), then turns to the side where a frazzled-looking Clint sits, heartrending pain evident in his eyes. 

 

When he sees she’s awoken, he jolts abruptly in his seat, blinking erratically like he’s not sure he can believe it—Natasha just chuckles at that, dry and throaty, the sound barely audible coming out of her battered throat. 

 

“Hey, Barton.”

 

Clint curses faintly under his breath, then, leaning forward in his seat and looking as if he can’t quite decide whether to be angry or relieved. “Christ, Tasha,” he mumbles, shaking his head, hand still tightly gripping hers. “Don’t _do_ that to me.”

 

Tiredly, Natasha quirks her lips in something like a smile—or, as well as she can manage, anyhow. 

 

“Deal,” she rasps out, an amused edge to her tone. “Near-death experiences suck.”

 

Unfortunately, Clint doesn’t find it all that funny. “Don’t,” he tells her shortly, pain dripping from the single word and piercing through Natasha’s chest like a knife. 

 

“Wanda told you what happened?”

 

“She did."

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Clint just shakes his head, eyes bloodshot and shiny with tears. “Are you?”

 

Natasha bites her lip, turning to stare back at the ceiling. “I… I don’t know. I’m sorry I scared you, but… ”

 

“You’re not sorry you did it,” Clint finishes for her, his voice hollow and despondent. 

 

She nods, feeling tears burning in her eyes as she turns back to look at him. “I just… I just wanted it to be over, you know? I’m just…” she trails off, a tear dribbling onto the wooden table beneath her (—Coulson’s table, she realizes with a start, which, _Shit_ ). "I’m so _tired_ , you know? I’m so _tired_ of fighting and fighting only for things to get worse every time. We _never_ get to win. Ever, and I—I just don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t know if I _can_.”

 

Clint sighs, a tear tracing his cheek. “I know,” he whispers gently, and Natasha feels like breaking all over again. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, not quite sure what else to say. 

 

“No, you’re not,” Clint mumbles crossly, then sighs, wiping at his face. “But, look, we have other things to worry about, okay? We can talk about this later.”

 

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Natasha nods, ignoring the nauseating waves of dizziness threatening to drag her under. “Okay. Help me up?”

 

“What?” Clint yelps suddenly, sounding harried. 

 

Natasha fights the urge to roll her eyes, skull pounding with queasiness. “C’mon, I can’t stay here forever.”

 

“Sure you can.”

 

She sighs. “Clint.”

 

“Natasha, you were shot. You almost _died_.”

 

Natasha ignores him. “And did we catch Alexei? The snake people?”

 

“The what now?”

 

“The people who shot me.”

 

He eyes her intently for a moment, defiance in his gaze, before heaving a long, defeated sigh. “No, we didn’t.”

 

“Then, help me up.”

 

“Fat chance.”

 

“Clint, it’s not over yet,” she argues, pushing through the utter exhaustion in her bones despite everything within her screaming not to bother. “We’re not done here.”

 

“Says who?”

 

“Alexei.”

 

Clint clenches his jaw, a sure sign she’s getting to him. “That’s not fair.”

 

“He’s coming for me anyways. He’ll never stop. You know that as well as I do.”

 

“Do I?” he snaps angrily—but, it’s lacking, devoid of any real anger, almost as if he’s trying to compensate for something… And Natasha knows she has him.

 

“Clint.”

 

He’s silent for a long moment, jaw working furiously, electric blue eyes darting this way and that like he’s looking for something, _anything_ to prove her wrong. 

 

“ _Clint_."

 

Eventually, he huffs, getting to his feet with a sour look on his features. “Fine.”

 

It’s painful, forcing herself to sit upright, sliding down off the table to stand (with Clint’s help, of course)—what’s more, she can hear muffled arguing from down the hall, between Wanda and Pietro and Daisy and Tony (with Phil playing referee—not that it sounds as if it’s going all that well, of course). 

 

_Shit_.

 

Taking a moment to balance herself and waving Clint away to do so on her own (he watches her with wary eyes whilst she trembles on her feet), she jerks her head towards the stifled voices (another pang of queasiness hits her soon after). “How long has that been going on for?”

 

Clint heaves a tired sigh, scratching at the mess of dirty-blonde hair on his scalp as he scrunches his features in thought. “A while. 30 minutes, maybe?”

 

“Wow.” Natasha lets out a low whistle, impressed—before another thought comes to her, and she’s asking, “How’s Barney?”

 

He shrugs, trying to play it off, but Natasha can tell he’s worried, can see it in the muscles tensed at his shoulders, the hyperactivity in his entire body, blue eyes darting sporadically around like he’d taken way too much Ritalin. “He’s okay, last I checked. Sleeping.”

 

Natasha bites her lip, shivering as another stab of pain hits her. “Is he in pain?”

 

“Some,” Clint replies, looking thoughtful. “What about you?”

 

It’s Natasha’s turn to shrug and act like it’s no big thing—but by the darkening realization in Clint’s bright blue eyes, she knows she didn’t do any better than he had. “I’ll live.”

 

Clint rolls his eyes. “I brought a couple of pills—you should take at least one.”

 

“Oxy?”

 

“Bakshi was very sympathetic to our plight.”

 

“I’m sure,” Natasha deadpans, and Clint smiles, already digging into his jean pockets, emerging a second later with a little baggie clutched tightly in his grip, two round blueish pills inside. 

 

Natasha raises a brow, eyeing the pills with open skepticism. “Blue this time?”

 

Clint shrugs. “You want ‘em or not?”

 

“Duh.”

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

It’s quite the scene in the Johnson-slash-Coulson-slash-May household as Natasha and Clint warily make their way down the hall, following the yells and argument despite all their better instincts nearly begging them not to—a moment later, they have full visibility of the room and its inhabitants; needless to say, it’s not all that pretty.

 

“What do you mean, 'they gunned down the school’?” Daisy demands shrilly, brown-eyed gaze hard and unforgiving, heavy makeup smudged, cheeks tinged with shades of splotchy pink—she’s been crying, Natasha realizes with a sharp stab of guilt. 

 

Tony huffs, a thin black streak running diagonally across his jaw (maybe from… a marker? Natasha isn’t sure), forehead dotted sparingly with shiny droplets of sweat. “Is there another way you’d like to translate that, Johnson?”

 

“Tony, calm down.”

 

“No, Maleficent, _you_ calm down!” Tony quips back, almost yelling at this point.

 

Wanda merely sighs, looking rather frazzled (—but beautiful, of course. Still beautiful). “That did not make any sense.”

 

“What is ‘Maleficent'?” Pietro questions faintly, sounding _adorably_ confused, and Natasha feels her lips twitch into a smirk.

 

Tony ignores him, his face reddening with zealous anger. “No, you know what doesn’t make _sense?_ How the _fuck_ you’re so calm right now with your girlfriend dying in the next room!”

 

Wanda’s eyes flash red, Phil intaking a sharp breath as she growls, “She’s _not_ dying.”

 

“Agreed!” Clint joins in with forced exuberance, thereby finally announcing their presence in the living area, six heads all swiveling rapidly around to face them—a paler-than-usual Natasha leaning slightly on Clint for support, her features caught halfway between concern and bemusement. “See?” Clint gestures wildly towards Natasha, an almost comically wide grin on his boyish features. “Not dead!”

 

Vaguely, Natasha can hear Phil whispering, “Did anyone else see the ‘red eyes’ bit? No? Just me? Good. Okay,” to a stony-faced Melinda off to the side—but she doesn’t care about that, because Wanda is slowly approaching her with painful hesitancy etched all across her pretty features, beautiful blue eyes glimmering with unshed tears. 

 

_God_ , Natasha loves her.

 

“You’re… You’re okay,” Wanda breathes out, coming closer and closer until she's inches away—Natasha gulps down her apprehension and nods, even if the slight movement alone is enough to shoot anguished pricks of nausea through her gut. 

 

“Good as new,” she replies wryly, and Clint snorts. 

 

“Don’t get cocky, Romanoff,” he mumbles from beside her—though, this time, it’s familiar. Teasing, almost… with no trace of the biting enmity from before. 

 

Then Daisy’s rushing forward with tears in her hazelnut-brown eyes, looking like she wants to fling herself into Natasha’s arms for a hug, but thankfully stops herself short at the last second, standing next to a likewise wrecked-looking Wanda in the room. 

 

Instead, she settles for a blessedly warm smile (though it’s tinged with a kind of sadness that makes Natasha _ache_ ), and a hurried, “God, Natasha, you _scared_ me,” her almond-shaped eyes rimmed with redness, nose tinged with pink. 

 

Natasha quirks her lips. “I couldn’t die on you guys yet… not when we still have asses to kick.”

 

There’s silence for a charged moment—Wanda’s eyeing her with a blank expression (Pietro is much the same), Clint is unnaturally still at her side, Daisy narrows her gaze like she’s not quite sure whether she heard Natasha correctly, Tony looks positively _scandalized_ (though, by what, she isn’t sure), and Phil just looks rather overwhelmed by it all, kind brown eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

 

“She’s kidding, right?” Tony questions eventually, his voice frantic, eyes darting from Daisy to Clint to Wanda and back again. “Please tell me she’s kidding.”

 

Wanda tilts her head, confusion and indignation (mostly indignation) flashing in her eyes, sending a shiver down Natasha’s spine. “I certainly _hope_ she's kidding.”

 

“Natasha, you’ve been _shot_ ,” Daisy argues emphatically, and Natasha fights the urge to roll her eyes. 

 

“Just get me a shot of adrenaline—I’ll be fine. We have bigger things to worry about.”

 

Pietro raises a tentative hand. “So, should I go grab that adrenaline, or—“

 

“Yes,” “No!” Natasha and Wanda answer at the same time, the boy shrinking under his sister’s glower, his hand falling limply to his side. 

 

“Also, that’s illegal,” Phil offers up matter-of-factly. 

 

They ignore him—meanwhile, Natasha turns back to Wanda, a pleading look in her eyes. “Wanda, I need to get to Alexei.”

 

“Are you insane?”

 

Natasha sighs, wincing as the slight movement jostles her injured shoulder (unfortunately, it seems the painkillers have yet to kick in). “He’ll never stop. Not until he kills me.”

 

Phil opens his mouth to speak. “Kids—" 

 

“So that is your plan, hm?” Wanda snaps, rage burning in her eyes, heedless of a desperate Phil standing just off to the side, clearly at a loss as to how to go about defusing the situation. “Give yourself up? Let him have you? He will _hurt_ you—”

 

“Not if a bring a gun.”

 

“What?!” Tony screeches, entering the heated conversation with a disbelieving look. “Buddy, that’s fuc—"

 

“I’m not your buddy.”

 

“This again?" Tony rolls his eyes. “Whatever. But, if you somehow think—"

 

“Are you involved in this?” Daisy demands angrily, stepping up to a stormy-faced Clint and fixing him with a burning glower. “Did you tell her to do this? Because I don’t _care_ that we’re friends, Barton, I will rip your _balls_ o—"

 

“Of _course_ this isn’t me,” Clint fumes, cheeks turning red with self-righteous fury. “I would _never_ —"

 

“Don’t blame Clint, alright?” Natasha interjects, quickly losing her patience. “This is _my_ idea."

 

“Oh, your idea to get yourself killed?” Daisy counters, nearly shouting at this point. 

 

“No,” Natasha objects furiously. “It’s my idea to _end_ things, once and for all.”

 

Wanda clenches her jaw. “By getting yourself killed.”

 

“N—"

 

“Never thought I’d say this, but I agree with Maleficent,” Tony adds unhelpfully, entirely unabashed even as a livid Wanda turns to face him, eyes flashing red with ire, scarlet energy gathering around her fingertips.

 

Natasha fights the urge to smack herself in the forehead.

 

“Oh, my God, she’s glowing,” observes a wide-eyed Daisy, dropping the expression of consternation from her features in favor of one pervaded with awe and a vague sense of terror as she watches Wanda staring down Tony, the room bathed in a crimson light. “Guys, are you seeing this? Because—"

 

“Yes, we’re seeing this, Dandelion,” Tony snarks, still glaring stubbornly back at Wanda.

 

“It’s _Daisy_.”

 

Tony huffs, hastily turning to look at her, Wanda forgotten (at least, for the moment). “It was a _joke_ , Violet—"

 

“Oh, you want to _joke_ right now? I’ll _show_ you—“

 

_Thwack!_ A pocket-sized knife with a no-nonsense silver handle embeds itself in a large wooden plaque mounted on the walls, the luminescent red of Wanda’s powers dissolving immediately in the space, everyone halting their speech and whirling around instantly to see—

 

Melinda. 

 

Correction: _Furious_ Melinda, idly twirling a second shiny throwing knife (identical to the first one now quivering in the wood) in her hand, lips pursed in a distinctly unamused expression. 

 

“You’re all idiots,” she grumbles when she has everyone’s attention, a sour look on her pretty features, not waiting for a reply as she continues: “Now, you’re all going to sit down on the couches, _without talking_ , and then, we’re going to discuss this. Like _adults_.”

 

No one moves a muscle. 

 

“ _Now_ ,” Melinda growls—instantly, they all scramble (Phil included) to find a seat on either of the couches opposite the room in utter silence, their heads bowed, feeling sufficiently chastised under May’s unrelenting stare. 

 

Clint, the only one that hasn’t begun to move yet, raises his hand while the rest of them settle into their seats, head tilted in a bird-like fashion. 

 

Melinda sighs heavily, but shoots him a curt nod. “What?”

 

“Are you a ninja?”

 

Melinda glares. “Sit. Down.”

 

He does. 

 

Seated in between Wanda and Tony (it’s a tight fit, but they’re making it work), Natasha sighs quietly to herself. _This is going to be interesting._

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm gonna have so much fun writing these bickering idiots in their 'family discussion' i can already tell omfg


	38. "on my count" (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May sits them down for an honest talk... secrets are revealed, Tony's a bit of an asshole, and it doesn't quite end the way it should. (But what else is new, right?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new update! :)

In the end, Melinda decides to move the ‘family discussion’ over to the dining table—there’s quite a bit of space in the living room between one couch and the other, and, as a result, they all can agree it was rather awkward for everyone to be simply sitting there on either side of the room spanning what felt to be a somewhat polarizing divide. 

 

So, they’re here, now: Melinda sitting at one head of the table; Phil at the other; Natasha sitting between Clint and Wanda; Pietro and Daisy and Tony sitting opposite them. 

 

It’s rather tense, understandably—no one’s spoken a word since May elected for the change in scenery, and really, Natasha isn’t all that keen on being the one to break the spectacularly tense silence blanketing them at the current moment. 

 

But, Melinda isn’t a push-over—she’d ordered a serious and truthful discussion, and a serious and truthful discussion was what she would get… no matter what it took. 

 

So, after a long minute of staring-slash-glaring (an art May has truly mastered over the years), the woman sighs, leaning forward in her seat and fixing Clint and Natasha with a hard look. “Talk.”

 

Natasha hears Clint gulp beside her, knows he’s seconds away from breaking—but this is her mess, she knows; not his. It always has been. 

 

(And maybe the pills she’d taken earlier are finally starting to kick in, and as a result, have her feeling a little loose-lipped—whatever, okay?)

 

“I—"

 

“It’s my fault,” Natasha interjects, quickly cutting Clint off despite the confused look she feels him immediately sending her way as a result. “I, um… I thought Alexei was gone.”

 

Melinda raises a single brow. “Alexei?”

 

“He’s… " Natasha trails off, biting her lip, thinking hard about what exactly she wants to say (which is difficult, considering the haze of cloudiness descending upon her brain from the painkillers), “someone I used to know.”

 

Melinda’s brown-eyed gaze narrows, and Natasha knows they’re far from done with the ‘Alexei’ topic. “That’s not going to work for me. I want _honesty_ , Natasha, or this isn’t going to work.”

 

Natasha exhales slowly, clenching her jaw. “He’s… he’s not a nice man, okay? That’s all you need to know.”

 

On a whim, she reaches out under the table, seeking comfort from Wanda sitting just beside her—and she finds it in slender fingers easily interlocking with hers, the ridges of the other girl’s silver rings pressing gently into her skin, their joined hands resting comfortably in Wanda’s lap even whilst Natasha thinks her heart might be in serious danger of beaitng straight out of her chest.

 

“Um, actually, you know, considering the whole 'school shooting’ predicament, I think details really won’t hurt,” Phil offers helpfully, brown eyes sparkling with kindness and the tiniest hint of humor—even now. 

 

Natasha opens her mouth to protest, but Clint stops her with a gentle hand on her arm, his touch seeming to burn into her skin—it’s not like Wanda’s; it’s not nearly as safe or kind or warm as Wanda’s, even as she knows Clint would never hurt her. 

 

“Natasha,” he mumbles softly, an earnestness in his blue-eyed gaze. “You should tell them.”

 

Natasha kindly resists the urge to smack him (—though, she’s not sure she’d have the energy, anyhow, what with the persistent heaviness in her slightly drug-addled brain and the magnificent warmth of Wanda’s touch gradually seeping through her body). 

 

“Considering what happened, you can understand why I’m not too keen on a walk down Memory Lane,” she quips sarcastically—but he just stares at her with those tired, pleading eyes, and she knows he has her. (She knows _he_ knows it, too.) 

 

“Fine,” she concedes shortly, turning back to fix May with a blank stare—or, as blank as she can get, considering the nerves and apprehension and nausea steadily building in her chest at having to do this, at having to remember him, at telling them what he did to her. 

 

(Wanda gives her hand a subtle squeeze at that, and idly, Natasha thinks she’s never loved another person as much as she loves Wanda right then, right there in that very moment.) 

 

“He had sex with me when I was 11, okay?” The words come in a rush, Natasha nearly stumbling over herself to get them out and away from her as quickly as she can manage—as if that might help somehow, asserting some kind of distance between those ugly words and the truth of them that she carries painstakingly with her throughout every day. (It never does, and this is no exception.) "And he kept doing it, ‘cause he thought… he thought I was pretty.”

 

A heavy silence falls over the room, one that seems to stretch out until just short of forever has passed—Natasha’s sure that if she dropped a pin, they’d hear its ring upon the tiled floors, clear as day.

 

But, she forces herself not to focus on that, not to allow the uneasiness churning in her gut to overcome her entirely; instead, she grasps Wanda’s hand a little tighter beneath the table, taking a sort of strength from knowing that Wanda’s there, that she still _cares_ , even after they staked themselves on distinctly opposing sides in the rather eventful living-room discussion of earlier.

 

Through all of it, Wanda still _cares_ , and that alone is enough to render Natasha wholeheartedly beside herself with bewilderment and emotion and _love_. 

 

“Shit,” Daisy breathes out eventually, disgust and awe and something else in her tone that Natasha can’t quite place—but it makes her skin crawl just the same. 

 

Pietro mumbles a curse under his breath—something foreign, a Sokovian expletive that Natasha can’t quite place; and then his head is snapping up, lips pursed tightly together, a fire in his hazel-eyed gaze that chills Natasha to the very bone. 

 

“I told you,” he hisses to Wanda across the table, the boy practically vibrating with rage. “We should kill him. And the rest of them, too.”

 

“Woah, woah, hold on,” Phil insists, though there’s an uncharacteristic somberness to his tone that sets Natasha on edge. “No one’s killing anyone,” he pronounces emphatically, his gaze burning into Pietro before swiftly returning back to Melinda. “Though, if anyone should be dying today, it’s definitely that guy.” At Melinda’s glare, he merely leans back into his seat, hands raised in a show of surrender. “Just sayin’."

 

Daisy frowns, a slight crease between her shapely brows. “What guy?”

 

“Alexei, dumbass,” Tony jibes with a snort.

 

“Shut it, Stark.”

 

“No, _you_ sh—"

 

“ _Both_ of you, shut it,” Melinda snarls—instantly, their mouths clamp shut. “Now,” she says, turning back to Natasha and Clint, “what does Alexei have to do with the hit on the school?”

 

Clint shrugs. “Beats me.”

 

Melinda shifts her gaze over to eye Natasha then, who simply shakes her head, brows furrowed. “I’m not sure.”

 

“It’s, um,” Wanda speaks up after a brief silence, looking distinctly uncomfortable, her hand beginning to grow slick in Natasha’s grip. “It’s the snake people.”

 

Daisy coughs. “The what now?”

 

“Are we talking an Eastern Garter snake, or like, a Black mamba?” Tony asks, a question to which none of them dignify with a response, because, _What?_ “Because, those are two _very_ different things."

 

Pietro rolls his eyes. “We call them that, because we don’t know who they are.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Daisy nods, confusion still evident on her face, clearly not understanding what any of this is meant to mean. “And who is ‘they,’ exactly?”

 

Wanda shifts in her seat, looking distinctly uncomfortable, and Natasha gives her damp hand a squeeze—silently trying to communicate that she’s there, even though she knows what Wanda’s about to share isn’t going to be easy. 

 

“They are… a corporation,” Wanda speaks carefully, seeming to measure every word—Natasha really doesn’t blame her. “They are many different things, but, in Sokovia, Pietro and I knew them as scientists.”

 

Pietro nods, jaw clenched. “They wanted to… create ‘inhumans.’”

 

“Mutants,” Wanda adds, by way of explanation. “We do not know if there are others, but… Pietro and I believe we were the first in the Sokovian sector.”

 

“'The first,' as in, the first to get the glow-y magic thing you do,” Daisy alliterates slowly, a skeptical look on her face. 

 

Wanda simply nods, her hand beginning to tremble slightly in Natasha's. 

 

“Yes. They kept us for… " she trails off, voice wavering dangerously, sad blue eyes looking across the table to Pietro for help.

 

“We do not know exactly… A year and a half, roughly,” he fills in for her, a resolute set to his jaw. “Before we escaped.”

 

Daisy nods, turning to Pietro beside her. “And, um, do you do the glowing magic thing, too? Or… "

 

Pietro’s lips twitch. “N—"

 

“Let me fill you in, Peaches,” Tony interrupts, confidence seeming to ooze from every pore, entirely oblivious to the death glares he’s receiving from everyone at the table. “He’s fast,” he announces arrogantly, beckoning to Pietro, “and she’s weird,” he finishes with a vague gesture in Wanda’s direction.

 

Pietro blinks, momentarily taken aback, before eventually turning to face his sister with raised brows. “Can we kill him, too?”

 

Wanda rolls her eyes at that—but before she can respond, Phil is jumping in again with another insistent: “Guys, seriously, I thought we agreed we weren’t killing _anyone_ today, right?”

 

Pietro shrugs, leaning back in his seat, staring down an unabashed Tony with a hard gaze. “I agreed to no such thing.”

 

A genuine smile quirks at Natasha lips at that, one she has to fight from overtaking her weary features—really, at this point, she’s not sure if it’s the drugs, or the situation itself (which, admittedly, is something that takes ‘ridiculous’ to an entirely new level); either way, she’s having an unusually hard time keeping her amusement contained. 

 

“Okay, _look_ ,” Melinda states authoritatively, instantly drawing everyone’s full attention. “You can sort all that out later. Right now, we need to—"

 

_Bang!_ A gunshot rings throughout the house, splinters flying through the air as the bullet rips through the far window pane. Bang! Bang! More gunshots—and, again, overlaid with the _chkchkchkchkchkchkchkchk!_ of a fully-automatic machine gun.

 

_Wonderful._

 

“Shit!” Daisy curses loudly, already sliding down in her seat as—

 

_Bang!_ — _chkchkchkchkchkchkchkc_ — _Bang!_ More bullets rip through the structure, plaster and wood flying this way and that, chaos ringing in Natasha’s ears. 

 

"Not _again_ ,” Clint groans before quickly ducking under the table, dragging Natasha down with him even despite her yelped protests as the sudden movement jostles her wounded shoulder, bullets whizzing above and around them in a hail of tumultuous devastation.

 

_Bang! Bang!—chkchkchkchkchkchkchkchkchk—Bang!—chkchkchkchkhckhckchkchk!_

 

Barely managing to keep her eyes open as splintered wood and plaster flies this way and that, Natasha does a quick headcount—Wanda’s huddled beneath the table with the rest of them along with Pietro and Daisy and a loudly screaming Tony, Phil and Melinda on either side pulling out—

 

_Is that a gun?_ Natasha asks herself dazedly.

 

She watches with wide eyes as Melinda expertly cocks the weapon and checks the sights, the woman already beginning to peer out and around the tabletop with the gun held tightly to her chest, presumably planning an escape, which, _Huh?_

 

Phil, meanwhile, had been doing the same (albeit a little less gracefully), a black pistol seeming to materialize from inside his coat, the man quickly checking the magazine before turning to peek through the gaps in his chair towards the front door, where (apparently) the shots are coming from. 

 

Gunfire rages in Natasha’s ears, assaulting her eardrums—she barely hears when Melinda turns back to make eye contact with Phil before shouting, “We need to get to the garage!”, the sound of her voice barely audible over the raining shots and the desperate ongoing screams of Tony (not even to mention the endless throbbing in Natasha's skull that only worsens with every thundering shot).

 

“Are you _crazy?_ " Clint yells back, a wild look in his eye. 

 

Melinda ignores him, again stretching up to peer over the table, firing off a few shots before kneeling back down with the rest of them. “We’re going to go on my count, okay? On ‘three’!”

 

“Sounds good, Mom,” Daisy calls back, an oddly calm look on her face, something Natasha will have to examine in detail later.

 

“We’re going to die,” Clint moans, and Natasha just trembles in place upon the cold tile, gripping Wanda’s hand tightly in hers like a lifeline (—she’s grateful beyond words can say that neither of them have made a single move to let go). 

 

_Bang!—chkchkchkchkchkchkchkchkchkchkchkchckchkchkchk—Bang! Bang!—chkchkchkchkchkchkchkchkchk—Bang!—chkchkchkchkhckhckchkchk!_

 

“One—"

 

“Please, no,” Clint whines—Natasha promptly elbows him in the gut, taking a small amount of absurd satisfaction in the pained grunt she gets for her efforts. 

 

“Two—"

 

“You’re going to be fine!” Pietro yells over to Clint, who just shakes his head miserably, a frantic look on his face. 

 

“Bullshit!"

 

“Pietro’s right,” Wanda agrees, her voice hoarse but strong over the raging sounds of gunfire (and Tony’s persistent screams, which, _Wow, that boy has some pipes on him_ ), her hand warm and comforting in Natasha’s grip. “I’ll shield us!”

 

“Like _hell_ y—"

 

“Three!”

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh i'm sorry for another cliffhanger ok i promise i'm really trying to work on this story as much as i can


	39. mr. coulson and mrs. may (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're caught in another shootout, and it's up to Mrs. May and Mr. Coulson to get them to safety. 
> 
> Also, Mr. Coulson is a bit of a love-struck idiot when it comes to his wife. (But, Wanda definitely gets it, 'cause she's awesome.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had some spur of the moment inspiration so wrote this all out in one go
> 
> hope you like:)

Sooner than Wanda can blink, they’ve burst into the garage, Mr. Coulson shutting the door tightly behind them as the gunfire rages throughout their house. 

 

_Bang! Bang!—chkchkchkchkchkchkchkchkchkchkchk!_

 

She holds tightly onto Natasha’s hand curled in her grip, noting the perspiration beading her pale temples, the strands of fiery-red hair clinging to her skin, the stiffness in her movements—she’s in pain, Wanda knows, and it _aches_ for her to see it. 

 

Her twin holds tightly onto her other wrist, a wild look in his eye, a thin cut above his brow where (presumably) a chunk of wooden shrapnel got the best of him—but he’s okay, for now, and Natasha is, too… That’s all that matters. 

 

Tony looks downright terrified but is otherwise unharmed and leaning heavily onto a wide-eyed Clint beside him, the two shuddering in place as— _Bang!_ —the sound of another bullet echoes loudly around the dimly-lit space, causing them all to flinch in tandem. 

 

“Get in the car!” Mrs. May barks a second later, her stern command reverberating alarmingly around them, the short Asian woman already yanking open the driver’s door of an intimidating all-black SUV and pulling herself gracefully inside. 

 

Mr. Coulson follows her lead a second later, shoving the scary-looking handgun into the waistband of his slacks and striding over, beckoning urgently for them all to get in the car, _now_. 

 

“C’mon!” Daisy bounds forward immediately, dressed in tight ripped black jeans and a denim jacket, grabbing the handle of the backseat door with an almost lackadaisical expression and helping Clint get a shaken Tony into the car, Clint following after him a second later. 

 

Wanda meets Pietro’s eyes, still clutching Natasha’s hand tightly in her grasp—he gives a shrug, and she nods back, swallowing thickly as Natasha does her best to suppress a pained moan at her side. 

 

“ _C’mon!_ ” Daisy repeats again, her tone wrought with urgency—they don’t hesitate this time, Pietro quickly appearing at Natasha’s other side to help her into the car, the two of them working quickly to buckle her into one of the middle-row seats even despite her sharp inhales with every slight movement that has Wanda’s heart wrenching painfully with guilt. Wanda jumps in next, Pietro just after, followed quickly by Daisy. 

 

It’s cramped, understandably—with only two middle-row seats (allowing for an aisle between the two to access the back) and three cramped spaces in the last row, two of which Tony and Clint have already claimed as their own.

 

Mr. Coulson's already seated and buckled in the passenger’s seat next to his wife, a pleasant expression on his face that juxtaposes the severity of the situation with such flagrance, it makes Wanda head spin rather unpleasantly.

 

Wanda takes the middle-row seat just across from Natasha at both Daisy and Pietro’s urging, whilst Daisy beckons hastily for Tony and Clint to make room in the back—they oblige her, albeit with more than a little disgruntled protests on Tony’s end, and Pietro settles himself on the floor just between Natasha and Wanda. 

 

It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do—especially considering that Mrs. May has long since started the car, appearing eerily calm in her seat even as muffled gunfire rages from a distance. 

 

She’s gunned the engine, and doesn’t bother looking into the rearview (where the garage door remains very much shut behind them) as she shifts into reverse and slams on the gas—Wanda has barely opened her mouth to ask what the _fuck_ she thinks she’s doing, an—

 

_Scree—Crunch!—eeeeeech!_

 

The ear-splitting squeak of the tires against the polished cement is supplemented by a loud metallic crunching noise, the entire SUV jerking abruptly forwards upon impact (which nearly sends Pietro flying straight through the windshield—Wanda winces slightly at the death grip he has around her lower thigh to keep himself from doing so), Tony’s undignified yells reaching unprecedented volumes from the back as the engine roars louder and the garage door finally gives with a sickening resonant tear, all of them flying at least a couple inches off their seats whilst a determined Mrs. May reverses them bumpily over the wood and metal that’s fallen from the mangled garage door (what’s left of it, anyhow) in the driveway.

 

Almost immediately once they’ve revealed themselves to the ever-darkening bluish hue of night, they’re assaulted with—

 

_Ban—Clang! Bang!—Clang! Chkchkchkchkchkc—ClaClaClaClaClang! B—Clang!_

 

Wanda flinches with every audible _clang!_ of bullets hitting and ricocheting off the car, a strangled yelp escaping her as a sickening _crack!_ sounds off, and the window to her right suddenly spider-webs from a single circular point of impact on the lower left part of the frame, more _crack!_ -ing noises filling her ears whilst every other window (including the windshield) gets the same sordid treatment. 

 

Idly, as Mrs. May turns the wheel around and around and around to the right with alarming speed (presumably aiming to steer towards the cobbled pathway just to the right of the garage that leads out to the street, though her headlights remain off, so it’s rather hard to see), Wanda comes to the realization that the SUV must be bulletproof… which, _What?_

 

But then, Mrs. May is yanking the gearshift into drive, and, _Squeeeeeeeeeeeee!_ go the wheels as the car lurches forward, and Wanda truly can’t find it in herself to think about much else, not whilst Mrs. May’s hands are a blur on the wheel as she works to right them through the turn, the car swinging precariously off-balance to the right when they’re finally passing the tan garage structure on their left and turning sharply onto the suburban street with alarming speed, hails of bullets still clanging their bumper and back window.

 

(Wanda thinks it’s a miracle they haven’t blown out their tires yet—or maybe the SUV’s tires are protected somehow, too. 

 

Honestly, at this point, Wanda doesn’t really want to bother thinking through the logistics of it all.) 

 

Mrs. May doesn’t speak whilst she books it down the street, wheels squealing unsettlingly on the blacktop—Wanda’s stomach churns nauseatingly with every second, even as the booming crackles of gunfire fades steadily behind them, and the _clang! clang! clang!_ of bullets hitting the SUV abates entirely. 

 

She takes a small modicum of comfort in Pietro’s hand still gripping tightly at her knee (his eyes glassy and unfocused, staring off into the distance through Wanda's egregiously cracked window, houses and trees whipping past in the almost-darkness far too quickly to really discern any of the landscape), in the way she slides her hand tentatively over to Natasha’s and the redheaded girl takes it in hers without a moment’s hesitation. 

 

Natasha doesn’t look at her, though—instead, her intelligent green eyes dart from Mr. Coulson to Mrs. May and back again like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing, an otherwise inscrutable expression on her pretty features that Wanda yearns to decipher. 

 

Wanda does a quick once-over on the current state of the backseat, too—Daisy is squished tightly between the boys in a position that really can’t be all that comfortable, but she’s relatively slouched and humming something Wanda can’t quite place under her breath and stroking the loose wavy locks of her dark brown hair like she is (Wanda really doesn’t quite know what she’s meant to make of that); Tony’s on her right (in the seat just behind Wanda’s), pale-faced and stiff, jean-clad knees pulled tightly to his chest as he watches the blurry hazy-blue neighborhood pass by through his well-cracked window with a mournful expression on his features, for once entirely unwilling to break the charged silence blanketing the eight of them; Clint looks a bit better than Tony (though nowhere near as comfortable as Daisy), all things considered—nose scrunched and biting his lower lip in a contemplative expression, blue eyes wide and slightly glassy in what little light the darkening world has to offer, tanned fingers tapping at his well-defined forearms, occasionally breaking form to stroke absentmindedly over the long pale scars etched generously into his golden skin. 

 

But, like always, her gaze inevitably returns to Natasha—who looks beautiful (as if she could ever look anything less). Even now.

 

She’s still wearing the same tight all-black leggings from detention (it’s not as if they had time for a wardrobe change in between the outright chaos of almost dying two times in one day), though she’d forgone the evergreen baggy sweatshirt from earlier (now soaked through with Natasha’s deep crimson blood) and was instead adorned in a matte-black zip-up hoodie of Daisy’s (in case she started bleeding again) that fit her rather snugly, her tangled red locks pulled haphazardly into a high ponytail atop her head, a few stray strands tickling the sharp underside of her delicate jaw. 

 

(Wanda thinks she’s never seen something—some _one_ so beautiful before.)

 

Her feet are clad only in mismatched white-and-grey socks (tattered white Converse resting side-by-side on the floor beneath her), legs tucked tightly into her chest, chin resting gently upon her legging-clad knees, her right hand at her side gripping Wanda’s tightly against her thigh. 

 

She shivers intermittently (even with the car’s heat blasting the interior to combat the chill of the night), and Wanda squeezes mildly on the pale hand in her grip to let Natasha know she’s there—and then, Natasha’s turning ever-so-slightly to gaze at Wanda in the almost-darkness, green irises twinkling in what’s left of the sky’s fading luminescence, her thumb beginning to stroke deftly at she skin of Wanda’s knuckles in a way that leaves joyful tears burning in Wanda’s eyes and a warm sensation tingling in her chest, because, they’re okay. 

 

They’re _okay_. 

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

They drive for a long time—they’re on the interstate (tucked safely over in the carpool lane, even if it is decidedly too late in the day for that to make much of a difference, efficiency-wise) by the time Wanda bothers to check the blinking lights on the dashboard (7:14pm), the phosphorescent green digits of the digital clock seeming to blink and waver in the darkness; regardless, it’s the only thing that seems to make any sort of sense right now… it’s the only thing that seems permanent, unchanging. 

 

Well… besides Natasha, she supposes—though, she still can’t shake the all-encompassing ache in her gut at knowing she got hurt, at knowing they shot her, at knowing Wanda was far too close to losing the only person she’s ever loved more than Pietro in the blink of an eye. 

 

(It’s selfish, she knows; morally reprehensible, even. 

 

And still, it hurts just the same.)

 

But, anyways—it’s 8:52pm now, they’ve gone through three consecutive toll booths on the highway, and no one’s spoken a single word since the shootout at Daisy’s house (save for Mr. Coulson and Mrs. May’s quiet mutterings to one another as they counted out change to pay each toll fare in coins); Wanda may not be extroverted in any sense of the word, per se, and she may be one of the shyest people she knows, but she can’t help the apprehension and dread pooling low in her gut, the burning questions that bubble up nauseatingly in her throat, the pure _anxiety_ that threatens to overcome her very being with every minute the torturous silence persists, with every second her unspoken questions and fears go unanswered. 

 

Pietro’s growing restless, too—she can feel it, can feel his ragged consciousness prodding at hers to _“Say something,”_ telling her _“Wanda, I’m freaked out,”_ pleading with her _“Please, can you just ask them where they are taking us?”_

 

She fights the urge to roll her eyes, sending back a hasty message on something of a whim: I thought you were 12 minutes older. Why don’t you do it? 

 

Pietro huffs out a quiet sigh in the blackness of night, his petulant irritation rolling off of him in waves. _Please, Wanda._

 

After a minute or two, she exhales defeatedly, shooting Pietro a half-hearted glare (one she doubts he can see in the now-absolute darkness clouding the car, the only light coming from the bright LED beam of the SUV’s headlights on the road before them), reluctantly opening her mouth to voice the qu—

 

“Where are we going?” Tony beats her to it (relief immediately curls in Wanda's chest at that), his voice throaty and tired from behind her, a sort of childlike uncertainty eclipsing his words that most certainly hadn’t ever been there before. 

 

Neither Mr. Coulson nor Mrs. May give any indication that they’d heard him—instead, Mrs. May calmly eyes the passenger's side mirror, swiftly flicking on her blinker as she expertly tilts the steering wheel, the car slowly drifting into the lane adjacent to them. 

 

There’s nothing but the rhythmic _click!_ of the turn signal followed by utter silence as she disengages it for the next minute or so—then, she’s letting out a near-imperceptible sigh, her posture fixed and impeccable in her seat. 

 

“Somewhere safe,” she answers eventually in a decisive tone, her words measured and deliberate, eyes remaining trained steadfastly upon the road ahead. 

 

Tony doesn’t reply to that—but Wanda’s interest is piqued even whilst Mrs. May wordlessly signals another lane change ( _click! click! click! click! cli—_ ) and hovers them deftly to the right (the SUV now beginning to broach the right-most side of the interstate). 

 

“How much longer will we drive?” she finds herself asking after a moment, her voice seeming foreign and strange to her ears, Pietro’s warmth pressed solidly against her and Natasha’s hand in hers the only things that even remotely seem to ground her. 

 

Mrs. May doesn’t respond whilst she calmly signals yet another lane change ( _click! click! click! cli—_ ), shifting them carefully into the right-most lane. 

 

“This is our exit,” she announces a second later in a suppressed tone (and Wanda feels slightly stupid for asking), engaging the blinker and guiding them skillfully down the offramp, slowing their speed significantly as she does. 

 

Wanda waits for her to offer more, but she doesn’t, the woman’s composure as closed-off and unapproachable as ever, and she resigns herself to the fact that she’s probably not going to get it. 

 

Meanwhile, they’ve entered the outskirts of a fairly quiet and unoccupied town, from what Wanda can gather (though she’s fairly sure they’re still in Vermont), the streets occupied sparingly with run-down motels and gas stations whose barely-illuminated signs flicker uncertainly as they pass by (though that could just be a trick of physics, considering they’re all observing the new location through bullet-riddled glass), supplemented by long stretches of emptiness and vacant lots populated lushly with trees and weedy grass. 

 

Uneasiness sits heavy in Wanda’s gut, prominent and unnerving, the kind she hasn’t known since Sokovia—but, a second later, Daisy is stretching out a hand to nudge at her shoulder, the Asian girl not bothering to comment (Thank _God_ ) on the violent recoil of Wanda’s body in response to the sudden touch.

 

“We’re, like, five to ten minutes out,” Daisy whispers once Wanda has turned to face her in the darkness, a sort of surety in her tone that sets Wanda on edge even as something within her relaxes incrementally at the certainty of a final destination in mind. 

 

Still, she manages a curt nod, mumbling her thanks before shifting back around to lean uneasily into her seat, tired eyes tracking what scant details she can extract from the eerily secluded town around them as they drive—she squeezes Natasha’s hand in hers, leans further into Pietro’s grip on her lower thigh with every minute that passes in silence, and she wonders if they’re being led to safety or the slaughter.

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

They drive for a good seven minutes (Wanda counts each one) without passing a single (un-abandoned) building on the way, the relatively-paved roads steadily deteriorating into what feels like well-packed dirt and squelching mud (if the sudden roughness of their ride is anything to go by)—but, eventually, they’re pulling up to a dark and imposing cabin-like structure, two-stories (at least), Mrs. May slowing gradually to a stop in the compacted dirt, bright LED beams illuminating a homey cobblestone walkway leading straight to the well-polished door of a woodsy lodge before she’s cutting the engine and they’re once again bathed in total darkness. 

 

A moment later, the yellowy interior bulbs of the SUV are setting themselves alight, and Wanda has to blink multiple times to clear her vision, the sudden brightness seeming to assault her senses, her eyes watering. 

 

As if waking up from an elongated trance, they all turn to look at one another (sans Mr. Coulson and Mrs. May) in the newfound light with bleary eyes, Wanda instantly feeling a slight blush heat her cheeks as she feels Tony, Clint, and Daisy eyeing her and Natasha’s joined hands—she doesn’t make a move to pull away, though, and Natasha doesn’t either; for that, she is grateful. 

 

She locks eyes with Clint diagonally across from her for a lingering instant, tilting her head slightly as he jerks his chin subtly towards Natasha in her seat, a clear question in his bright-blue eyes. 

 

Biting her lip, Wanda focuses her weary brain on affixing her consciousness with his. _She’s okay, I think_ , she tells him, lips twitching as a gobsmacked expression overtakes his boyish features. _For now_.

 

“Holy _shit!_ " Clint hisses out breathlessly at the realization of what she’d just done, mouth agape, eyes bulging—Wanda fights the powerful urge to smack herself in the forehead as everyone (Mrs. May and Mr. Coulson included) turns to eye him with curious looks that vary from utter confusion (Pietro, Mr. Coulson, Daisy) to downright annoyance (Tony, Mrs. May, Wanda).

 

(Natasha, for her part, sits preternaturally still in her seat, her green-eyed gaze unfocused and worryingly absent upon the bullet-riddled windshield even as her fingers remain firmly intertwined with Wanda’s.)

 

No one speaks for a little while, and Clint’s blush deepens under the weight of everyone’s combined scrutiny. 

 

“Anyways,” Mrs. May begins authoritatively (turned to face the rest of them, leather-clad elbow leaning on the center console), when the majority of them have turned their gazes back towards the front of the car, Clint more or less forgotten for the moment, “is everyone okay?”

 

From the back, Tony snorts, though it’s weak—half-hearted. “Peachy.”

 

Mrs. May clenches her jaw, but doesn’t bother dignifying Tony’s sarcastic remark with a response—instead, her brown-eyed gaze flits to Natasha, who still has yet to move a muscle since the weighted silence had broken. 

 

“Natasha?” she questions softly, a gentleness to her tone that Wanda’s never heard before—but, she’s grateful for it all the same. 

 

Natasha blinks after a moment, hastily schooling her expression and meeting Mrs. May’s eyes with a noticeably forced air of self-assuredness (which doesn’t quite hide the poorly-concealed ambivalence Wanda sees underneath it), her features unchanging even as Wanda gently squeezes the other girl’s hand in a show of reassurance (even if their embrace has grown rather damp with sweat over the length of the car ride). 

 

“What is this place?” Natasha questions hoarsely in lieu of a response, a slight tremble in her words. 

 

Mrs. May’s lips twitch in such a way that Wanda knows she sees the blatant deflection for what it is (she thinks they all do), but she lets out an even sigh, relenting as she allows her gaze to wander back to the rest of them. 

 

“A safe house,” she tells them, and Wanda ignores the anxiety curdling nauseatingly in her gut at not knowing if she can be trusted. “Phil will get you settled, but I need to take care of the car.”

 

Daisy pouts. “But, Mom, I _liked_ this car.”

 

Wanda’s brow furrows in confusion at that. 

 

The ghost of a smile quirks at Mrs. May’s lips. “Me too, hon. But, she took a bit of a beating, no?”

 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Mr. Coulson inputs for the first time, nudging Mrs. May affectionately and turning so that the two can fit both of their heads between the seats to address the children. “Who said it’s not a he?”

 

Wanda feels a small grin spreading across her face even despite her confusion, her uncertainty. “Pietro insists on always asking for every single person’s preferred pronouns.”

 

Mr. Coulson grins, giving Pietro an approving nod. “Ladies and gentlemen, take a good look—“

 

“Oh my _God_ , Dad.”

 

“—because _this_ ,” the man emphasizes, gesturing with a single hand to a bashful Pietro seated cross-legged upon the floor, “is what a true feminist looks like.”

 

Pietro pokes Wanda’s knee, the vast grin on his angular features threatening to split his face in two. “Did you hear that, sister? Did you? Bec—"

 

“What about me?” comes Tony’s indignant drawl from the backseat. “ _I’m_ a feminist!" he insists, undeterred by the subsequent exasperated groans of literally everyone else in the vehicle. “I love women, and women’s rights, and—"

 

“I thought you were gay,” Natasha offers quietly in a wry tone, nose scrunched in _adorable_ dissatisfaction—Wanda’s heart leaps at the sound of her contributing, even as she pleads for the rest of them _not_ to make a scene of it, knowing very well from personal experience how it had the potential to make Natasha retreat even further into herself.

 

Tony huffs petulantly without a moment’s hesitation, and Wanda feels a rare twinge of affection for the outspoken boy. “So, what? I can’t be gay _and_ a feminist? You know, Romanoff, I’m beginning to sense some hostility h—" 

 

“Yeah, Natasha, just say you hate gay people!” Daisy jeers loudly, and Natasha whirls around to fix the girl with a playful glare.

 

“Don’t make me kick your ass, Johnson.”

 

“Oh, I’d like to see you t—"

 

“I’m going to throw you all out of my car in five seconds if you don’t get yourselves out,” Mrs. May interrupts in a low, intimidating tone (though there’s something of a mischievous glint in her eye that assures them she’s not truly upset). “I have a bulletproof-armored family-sized SUV to get rid of.”

 

At that, the kids all scramble to obey her command (even if they know she’s not seriously going to chuck them out onto the dirt… probably), Mr. Coulson planting an affectionate kiss upon her cheek before following suit (Wanda sees a slight flush tint Mrs. May’s high cheekbones in response, which she can’t help but find utterly _precious_ ). 

 

They’ve only just shut their doors and stepped back from the vehicle before Mrs. May is reversing with alarming haste, gearing into an impeccable and incredibly quick three-point turn that Wanda thinks makes the Fast & Furious franchise look like an absolute joke in comparison—then, she’s driving off into the distance without bothering to turn on the LED headlights (which slightly worries Wanda, but she also has a feeling that Mrs. May is not exactly someone she ever really needs to be worrying about), leaving the seven of them standing awkwardly clumped together in her wake. 

 

“Wow,” Clint remarks fervently after a sustained moment, when they can no longer see the boxy silhouette of the vehicle nor hear the revving purr of its engine—though, they’re still watching after the last place they’d seen it with eyes wide and mouths slightly agape, an awed silence settling collectively over them. 

 

Mr. Coulson merely sighs happily, nodding his head lazily in agreement, a whole-heartedly love-struck look in his eyes (distinctly visible even under the weak light of the moon overhead). “She’s awesome, right?” 

 

Wanda feels a wide smile stretching across her features, wide enough that it actually hurts after a minute or two—and, still, she doesn’t fight it, relishing in the soreness in her cheeks and the contented feeling settling deep within her chest. “Yeah. She is.”

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> may and coulson feels give me LIFE
> 
> also am i in love with melinda may? possibly. very possibly


	40. the thing about love (pov natasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Melinda takes care of the car, the kids and Phil get all settled in for their first ever joint sleepover!
> 
> Aaaand Wanda and Natasha get some alone time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new update...👀👀

Melinda drives off into the distance, leaving the rest of them staring blankly after her, an inexplicably stagnant feeling settling over their respective figures—but, not a minute later, Phil and Daisy are traipsing down the cobblestone walkway and striding right up to the polished wooden door of the two-story lodge as if they own the place (which, Natasha guesses, they kind of do), murmuring unintelligibly amongst themselves all the while. 

 

In the meantime, Tony and Natasha and Clint and the twins stare after the pair of them from the packed dirt of the driveway—it’s only after they’ve brandished a key (though Natasha doesn’t have the faintest clue from where) and deftly pried open the door that the two of them turn back with matching grins and a devious sparkle in their eyes, gesturing earnestly for the rest of them to follow suit. 

 

Tony goes first after a moment’s deliberation, stumbling over his own feet and grumbling incoherently with every stride; Clint makes a move to go next, scarcely-concealed relief written all over his exhausted features at the prospect of a warm bed just within reach, but Natasha stops him on something of a whim, reaching out to rest a tentative hand upon his forearm. 

 

He turns back to face her, an unspoken question in his eyes, a tired yet attentive air about him—God, she loves him. 

 

“We should… " Natasha trails off, suddenly feeling rather foolish and small under his expectant blue-eyed gaze. “We should be careful,” she finishes lamely, cheeks flushed; though, a second later, she feels Wanda’s hand sliding easily into hers, the sensation of cold metal rings around warm willowy fingers more than enough to calm her racing thoughts—at least, for the moment. 

 

“We will be,” Wanda speaks up softly then, rubbing her thumb soothingly over the skin of Natasha’s knuckles; Natasha turns to give her a bashful smile in return. 

 

“It is cold,” Pietro huffs grumpily a second later, his warm breath visible as wisps of silvery fog in the freezing night. “Can we go in now?”

 

Natasha smirks. 

 

“Sure, Mr. Sparkles,” she retorts, her smirk widening at the disgruntled glare Pietro throws her way—then, she’s extending a single arm in a gesture of somewhat feigned benevolence, beckoning for him to start them off. “Lead the way.”

 

Wanda giggles (it makes Natasha’s heart flutter in her ribcage) as her twin rolls his eyes and storms off towards the house, her hand squeezing Natasha’s comfortingly as the two of them (along with Clint) approach the cabin in Pietro’s wake, each bearing analogous expressions wrought with varying amounts of trepidation. 

 

_Stay calm_ , she tells herself, unconsciously leaning further into Wanda’s tall form beside her. _You’re not going to die… Probably._

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

It’s a large homey cabin, with six total rooms (including the master) and a sleek, polished (yet abandoned) look about it. They pass through a spacey kitchen on the way in with sleek granite countertops and an oakwood dining table that seats 8; from what little Natasha can see of the rest of the house, there’s a living room with a pitifully outdated television set (seriously, it looks like it’s 100 pounds—at _least_ ), two skylights in the adjoining halls for… well, for _what_ , Natasha doesn’t quite know, and at least two bullet holes (by Natasha’s count thus far) marring the plastered cream-colored walls. 

 

All in all, it’s not a five-star resort, by any means, but Natasha knows that it could be a hell of a lot worse. 

 

The room situation is sorted out fairly quickly—Melinda and Phil in the master suite, and all other kids are granted their own space, with the exception of Natasha and Wanda; as soon as they’ve caught up with Phil and Daisy and all the rest of them, they’re promptly informed that two of the kids needed to share a room, and, by popular vote, everyone had already long since agreed that it should be Natasha and Wanda who did so. 

 

Natasha flushes slightly and gives Wanda a shy smile that the Sokovian girl immediately returns with one of her own, but, other than that, they remain quiet under the weight of everyone’s stares, unwilling to embarrass themselves any further. 

 

Then, Pietro’s rapidly speeding off through the halls (entirely ignoring Phil’s call for _“No running!”_ as he disappears in a flash of luminescent blue), returning back a second later to announce that after inspecting all the rooms, he’s claimed the biggest one (shocker) at the end of the hall upon the second floor. 

 

Clint pouts. “No fair, man, you can’t call dibs.”

 

Pietro blinks—once, twice, a look of _adorable_ confusion upon his angular features. “‘Dibs’?”

 

“I—"

 

“Ignore him,” Natasha interjects swiftly, rolling her eyes at a disgruntled Clint. “Wanda and I call dibs on the second biggest room.”

 

“We do?” Wanda questions quietly then, a teasing grin on her face. 

 

Natasha’s flush deepens, her jaw opening and closing like a fish on land, eyes widening with alarm as she struggles to form words. “I mean, you know, if you’re okay with that, obviously, ‘cause—Like, I didn’t mean to—"

 

“Natasha,” Wanda stops her, smiling widely and rubbing tenderly at the skin of Natasha’s wrist. “I was joking.”

 

Natasha bites her lip in an attempt to keep from smiling (it doesn’t work), cheeks hot. “Oh.”

 

“Ew,” Pietro groans, covering his face with his hands—instantly, Wanda and Natasha’s faces turn an impressive shade of red.

 

“Get a room!” Daisy jeers a second later, both hands cupped around her mouth for maximum stadium-like effect, and Natasha fixes her with a murderous glare. 

 

Phil sighs heavily, though there’s an undoubted trace of amusement upon his aged features. “Dai—"

 

“Personally, I don’t mind,” Tony butts in, a playful spark in his tired brown eyes, a lazy smirk on his features even as the rest of them (sans Phil) turn to glower at him. “Seriously, I am a _huge_ proponent of Sapphic lady-loving culture, ‘c—"

 

Natasha grumbles, “Tony, I swear to _God_ —"

 

“No, really! I _love_ lesbian porn—"

 

“Oh-kay!” Phil interrupts decisively, eyeing an unperturbed Tony with a vaguely scandalized expression (though the man's almond-colored eyes still twinkle with that boyish gleam). 

 

“You’re all going to bed now,” he tells them, then begins to rock awkwardly on his heels when no one makes a move to leave. “Like, _now_ ,” he repeats emphatically, and they all jolt into action—Pietro’s gone with a crackle and a flicker of lurid aquamarine, Natasha allows herself to be led by a yawning Wanda up the wooden staircase in search of (presumably) the aforementioned second-largest room, Daisy and Tony and Clint trudging sluggishly after them. 

 

This should be interesting.

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

 

They end up in the room just adjacent to Pietro’s, housing light blue walls and a single queen-sized bed with eggshell-white sheets in the center of the room. There’s a short black-painted nightstand off to the side, and a tall metal lamp in the far right corner that, interestingly enough, serves as the only light for the entire room. 

 

The two of them fumble around aimlessly in the darkness for a little while before Natasha finally stumbles upon the lamp in question, flicking it on and sighing with relief when the dull-yellowy light fills the space, casting long shadows over the carpeted floor and bathing the room in an eery saffron glow.

 

“Spooky,” Natasha mumbles to herself, before turning around to face the bed, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of Wanda sitting neatly upon the edge of the mattress, still wearing a tight pair of black leggings and Natasha’s white-striped burgundy hoodie, blue-green eyes sparkling magnificently in the low lighting. 

 

“Hi,” Natasha says stupidly, chastising herself for being so daft almost immediately after as she stands awkwardly in place just feet from the Sokovian girl—but, Wanda merely gives her the warmest of smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges, a slight flush upon high cheekbones; Natasha ultimately decides she’s alright with being embarrassing if this is the response she gets. 

 

“Hi,” Wanda whispers back, red lips still curved into a dizzying grin, and Natasha feels butterflies swirling in her stomach. 

 

“Are you tired?” she asks hoarsely after a minute, her brain scrambling for something to talk about, anxiety threatening to overtake her in waves at the reality of their current situation (the two of them, alone, in a low-lit room with only one bed), which Natasha’s considerably hampered brain is only just now beginning to fully understand the devastating implications of. 

 

Wanda shakes her head slowly, quirking a single brow, and fuck if that doesn’t succeed in setting every nerve ending in Natasha’s being alight with warmth and excitement and… and something that feels a hell of a lot like _wanting_. 

 

“Are you?” Wanda questions, blue-eyed gaze seeming to burn through Natasha with every passing moment, and she feels her cheeks grow hot under the unyielding inspection. 

 

“No,” she admits shyly, stepping closer until her legging-clad thighs graze Wanda’s clothed knees, the shadow of her figure casting darkness upon a nearly even half of Wanda’s gentle features. 

 

Wanda nods, wordlessly sliding her hands around Natasha’s waist and pulling her closer, the brunette girl’s smirk widening as Natasha’s breath hitches in her throat ( _again_ ) at the sudden movement. 

 

“Should we do something else, then?” Wanda muses in something of a purr, heat pooling lower and lower in Natasha’s belly at the sound of it as her own hands reflexively begin to fiddle with the zipper of Daisy’s black hoodie upon her shoulders. 

 

A second later, though, Wanda’s hands flee from her waist to rest gently atop Natasha's, and Natasha furrows a brow but halts her actions all the same, shooting Wanda a questioning look. 

 

“Are you doing this because you want to, Natasha?” she murmurs, blue-green eyes wide with sincerity and twinkling under Natasha’s gaze in such a way that she’s positively overcome in that moment with utterly paramount feelings of desire and adoration and _love_. “Or, are you doing this because you know that I want to?”

 

Natasha blinks, taking a long moment to think about the warm emotion roiling in her chest, the inexplicable urge alight within her very being to feel Wanda’s naked form pressed solidly against hers, the bone-deep yearning in her core that calls for _more_ than chaste kisses and bashful smiles, more than Natasha has ever let herself have since… well, since forever, really. 

 

“I want this,” she tells Wanda, holding eye contact all the while to let her know she means it. “I want you.” She pauses, biting her lip as she thinks. “But… can we go slow? I don’t… I don’t know if I can let you touch me. Not…not yet.”

 

Wanda’s hands come up to cup Natasha’s jaw above her, stroking softly at the delicate skin there, the smile reappearing upon her lips as Natasha shudders at the contact. 

 

“We don't have to do anything until you are ready, Tash.”

 

Natasha feels herself blush deeply as she leans into Wanda’s hands, lower lip still caught between her teeth. “But… But I want to make you feel good.”

 

Wanda visibly shivers at that, and Natasha smirks. “And we can do that… when _you_ are ready. I do not want you to make me feel good if I cannot do the same for you in return.”

 

Natasha giggles, feelings tears well up in her eyes all of a sudden even as she valiantly attempts to blink them away. “I, um… I love you, Wanda, okay?”

 

Wanda’s grin widens, and Natasha doesn’t protest as she pulls her down for a kiss, then pauses for a long moment with their faces millimeters apart, Wanda’s cute nose brushing lazily against Natasha's. 

 

“I love you too, Natasha,” Wanda says then, her warm breath ghosting over Natasha’s lips, and Natasha thinks that this is the kind of love people move mountains for—and God, she’ll do exactly that the second Wanda asks; she’ll shift continents and burn bridges and put her life on the line every single goddamned time if it means she has right here and right now, where she loves the most incredible girl she’s ever known and that same incredible girl loves her right back in a way Natasha feared she might never know for as long as she lived. 

 

They tumble into a fervent kiss and it’s like heaven: the warm press of Wanda’s lips against hers, the unquestionable reality of Wanda’s fingers stroking at the underside of her jaw, the gradual realization that she wants _more_ of this, more of _Wanda_ —that she wants to _live_ above all else, because maybe it didn’t seem to matter before, and maybe she doesn’t love herself anywhere near how she’s supposed to… 

 

But, she has Wanda— _Wanda_ , who she never wants to leave behind, because Natasha’s living for her within every fleeting moment; and, really, she thinks that that’s all anyone ever really needs: someone to come back for. 

 

Someone to hug and kiss her when her world feels like it’s crumbling at her feet, someone to remember and care when she loses herself drinking ’til sunup like there's a message in the bottle, someone to hold and _love_ her when she’s tired of fighting any longer because she swears her heart can’t take it if she has to lose herself like that again. 

 

She has Wanda, whose smiles and words and kisses feel like a sort of high she’ll happily spend the rest of her days chasing, whose delicate hands don’t leave burns upon Natasha’s skin like Yevgeni’s always did, whose unconditional love Natasha knows damn well she wouldn’t mind drowning in for as long as Wanda will let her; she has _Wanda_ , and that means she doesn’t have to be afraid anymore. 

 

She has Wanda, and that means she’s not alone.

 

⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗ ⧗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're so fuckin soft they kill me ok


	41. code eyepatch (pov wanda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda wakes to a peaceful scene with a dozing Natasha sprawled unconscious beside her in the rays of morning light... unfortunately, though, it doesn't last all that long. 
> 
> Also, Clint's hungry. (Though, really, that doesn't exactly come as a surprise to literally anyone.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i'm soRry its been a hot minute since i've updated - writer's block is kicking my ass, and mentally i'm having a meh time, plus i'm trying to pack of up for college cause i'm leaving really really soon (like... next week?)
> 
> but anyways super sorry thank you so much for being patient with me i appreciate it literally so much
> 
> aaaand heres a new bit:

It’s early morning, from what Wanda can tell—golden daylight streams through the single window off to the right, revealing each empty corner of the simple room that had appeared so sinister last night in the sweeping darkness, setting the gentle slopes of a sleeping Natasha’s figure ablaze beside Wanda in the spacious bed. 

 

Well, perhaps ‘ablaze’ is not the proper term… but, all else aside, she’s sprawled cutely on her front under the sheets, pale cheek squished against the pillow beneath her, and truly, she looks to be glowing under the amber rays of sunlight; Wanda thinks briefly that she’s never seen something (or some _one_ , rather) so ethereal in her entire life. 

 

Of course, with the way things had been going recently, she might’ve guessed it wouldn’t last for very long: a second passes, and their chipped wooden bedroom door is being unceremoniously thrown open (frankly, Wanda’s surprised the thing doesn’t just come off its hinges entirely), a frantic Clint and Pietro scrambling through the doorway with a rather groggy-looking Tony Stark in tow. 

 

Wanda barely has time to hiss out, “What the _f_ —" before a frantic Pietro is collapsing sloppily upon the bed, halting Wanda’s speech as the full weight of his lanky body (which is actually rather substantial, interestingly enough) lands squarely atop her covered legs.

 

“ _Ow!_ ” Wanda snarls and Natasha groans from beside her as Pietro promptly disappears from the bedspread in a flicker of luminescent aqua blue before instantly reappearing again at the foot of the bed wearing only his bedraggled clothes from earlier and a vaguely sheepish expression upon his handsome features, hazel eyes glowing mischievously in the morning light. 

 

Clint, meanwhile, appears significantly less composed in his rather rumpled clothing from earlier (blue jeans and a black T-shirt with a downwards-facing purple Chevron emblazoned upon the chest), if his uncharacteristic silence combined with the way his bright-blue eyes look to be bulging out of their sockets is any indication—and, Tony, for his part, looks about a second away from collapsing, but he’s only wearing his black sweater from yesterday and a pair of (probably) obscenely expensive navy-blue boxers, and Wanda thinks she won’t hesitate to hex-blast him into space if he even _tries_ flopping himself atop her and Natasha’s bed. 

 

(Because, really—if she hadn’t known she was a lesbian before, she sure as hell did now with Tony Stark’s pale hairy legs out proudly on display whilst she sat comfortably beside a newly-stirring Natasha in their shared queen bed.)

 

Natasha rolls closer to Wanda and flips herself over with a soft groan, the warmth of the redhead's body pressed solidly against Wanda’s in the best possible way even as she tries to focus on the issue at hand (i.e. the sudden influx of three obnoxious males encroaching upon their space—and, no, it doesn’t make a lick of difference that one of those aforementioned ‘obnoxious males’ is in fact related to her, because it’s still annoying and she’d very much like them to go away, like, _now_ ). Still, it’s difficult, because Natasha looks nothing short of _angelic_ right now, even with that grumpy scowl marring her beautiful features and those catlike green eyes droopy with sleep. 

 

“What do you _want?_ ” Natasha moans exasperatedly at the ceiling without bothering to sit up and face their entirely unsolicited visitors, her melodious voice husky and rough in the wake of such a rude awakening—still, Wanda thinks that she’s ~~probably~~ the most gorgeous goddamned thing she’s ever seen, and it’s more than enough to render her overcome with feelings of adoration and inexplicable nostalgia and utterly unrepentant _love_ , even when there’s probably approximately a million other things she should be concerning herself with, like almost dying the past couple of days and trying not to die within the next few and the fact that she doesn’t quite understand a single bloody thing that’s happened since last night. 

 

“We have a Code Eyepatch,” Tony grumbles sleepily while maintaining some vague sense of urgency, wide chocolate-brown eyes underlined with visible exhaustion, a somewhat stunned look upon his typically so self-assured features. 

 

Wanda frowns grouchily. “Wh—"

 

“Yes! _That!_ ” Clint affirms in a loud whisper, his darkened dirty-blonde locks sticking up every which way, and Wanda begins to feel an unmistakable headache dawning in the back of her skull, because, really—what does that even _mean?_ “ _Code Eyepatch_ ,” Clint repeats beseechingly in a whisper-shout, frenzied energy rolling off of him in palpable waves. “I repeat: _Code Eyep_ —"

 

“Clint!” Natasha groans in an irritated tone, the girl reticently moving herself upright in the mess of sheets, the full length of her body still pressed lazily against Wanda’s as the two of them sit up to fix their early-morning intruders with matching unamused stares. “We don’t have time for this—"

 

“Actually, Anastasia,” Tony interjects snidely, the exhaustion rapidly fading from his voice in favor of an annoying aura of self-importance. “You’re gonna have to _make_ time for this, because Captain Eyepatch isn’t g—"

 

“ _Who?_ ” Wanda questions incredulously, and Tony promptly rolls his eyes in response, as if she’s just asked the stupidest question of the century. 

 

“Wait… " Natasha trails off from beside her, an almost _scared_ look spreading across her features, green-eyed gaze narrowing upon an exasperated Tony Stark. “You don’t mean… "

 

Tony just nods solemnly at that. 

 

“Hold on, _what?_ " Wanda questions desperately after a second of deliberation, her head beginning to spin with an innumerable amount of questions (not to mention the dull ache throbbing amidst it all), unbearable red-hot frustration expanding in her chest until she’s sure she’s going to blast something if Tony Stark doesn’t get to the point, _quick_. “Who are you talking about?”

 

Again, Tony rolls his eyes dramatically, and Wanda thinks she feels her own blue-green irises flash a glowing crimson for a split second or two in response—though, luckily, Clint chooses that moment to jump in with a hand upon Tony’s shoulder (which, interestingly enough, is more than enough to keep the loud-mouthed boy from saying something undoubtedly snarky in lieu of a straight answer) and an apologetic look directed at an increasingly agitated Wanda that does little to calm the formidable rage swirling in her gut. 

 

“Principal Fury,” he informs her, the delivery eerily calm, and Wanda’s anger immediately dissipates. 

 

_What?_

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

 

“I always knew he was sketchy,” Tony tells them matter-of-factly (the three boys are now standing loosely in something of a semi-circle facing Natasha and Wanda, who remain seated side-by-side at the foot of their bed), and Clint snorts. 

 

“Did you, though?” he counters bemusedly. "You just hated him ‘cause he never put up with any of your bullshit.”

 

“That’s my boy,” Natasha chimes in wryly, and Tony scowls. 

 

“Okay, but, what do we _do?_ ” Pietro interjects nervously before Tony can come back with something rude, her twin shifting side to side on his bare feet even as Wanda catches his eye for a brief moment in a somewhat half-hearted attempt to reassure him… which, obviously, was rather hard, as Wanda couldn’t help but feel both Pietro’s and her own tumultuous anxiety warring vociferously in her chest like the perfect storm, one she couldn’t combat with any real fortitude since she still didn’t understand what the _fuck_ was even happening. 

 

“Is there anything we _can_ do?” Clint questions next in an interesting show of sagely wisdom, and Wanda can see Natasha nodding slightly out of her periphery in response to that. 

 

“Maybe Principal Fury’s one of the good guys,” Natasha reasons, though her tone is wrought with poorly concealed doubt, and Tony latches onto that almost immediately. 

 

“Wha—The ‘ _good_ ' guys?” he objects crossly, making air quotes with both hands. “We don’t even know if the gang of super-secret agents downstairs are trustworthy or just batshit in _sane_ —"

 

“It’s Daisy,” Natasha shoots back matter-of-factly, and Tony’s eyes bulge. 

 

“So _what?_ How does _that_ ma—"

 

“So,” Natasha counters with a scowl (which Wanda probably shouldn’t find as sexy as she does, but that’s a problem for another day). “I trust her, _that’s_ what.”

 

“I do, too,” Clint chimes in, too, though his contributory words fall on rather deaf ears as Tony and Natasha continue their intent staring match from either sides of the circle. 

 

“And how do you know she’s not a plant?” Tony demands next, questing gaze still fixed firmly upon a more or less inert Natasha, and Pietro immediately frowns. 

 

“A plant?” he inquires, and Wanda silently begs him to quit while he’s ahead, because Christ, but they really don’t have _time_ for this. 

 

“Yes, Wally West, a _plant_.”

 

“Like… a flower?” (He doesn’t listen… obviously.)

 

“I— _No_ , Peter Pan,” Tony huffs out, growing more and more agitated by the second, "it’s—"

 

“Ah, I see,” Pietro says suddenly with a snap of his fingers, and Wanda fights the powerful urge to hit herself in the forehead because she’s about 99.9% sure that he really, _really_ doesn’t. “That was a name joke,” he continues on proudly even whilst Tony pointedly squints his eyes at the boy. “Since her name is Daisy, and a daisy is a flower, and flowers are _also_ plant—"

 

"Son of a _bi_ —"

 

Just then, the closed door goes _creeeak!_ (thereby successfully cutting off a notably indignant Tony Stark), and the three boys whip around on their heels and begin retreating backwards in sync as Wanda puts forth her hands to summon a wall of glowing crimson energy on more of a reflex than anything else, her lips twitching upwards when she hears Clint’s faint awed _“Woaahhhh”_ in reply. 

 

A well-rested Daisy walks through the door dressed in black leggings and a matching black tee with a strange grey circular logo emblazoned upon the left breast, then eyes each of them in turn through the luminescent (though mostly transparent) reddish barrier as if entirely unperturbed by Wanda’s show of conspicuous safeguarding and blatant mistrust. 

 

They’re all silent for a protracted moment, the room quiet save for the placid hum of Wanda’s magic forcefield of buzzing scarlet energy between Daisy and the rest of them. 

 

Daisy sighs then, her tanned skin bathed in blood-red radiation. “So, um… " she begins awkwardly, the ghost of a smile upon her pretty features even as she receives varying degrees of somewhat hostile stares from everyone in the room. (To some extent, Wanda will admit she’s a bit impressed by Daisy’s self-assured composure, even if she’s not sure whether to call her ‘enemy' or ‘friend' quite yet.) “Are you guys comin’ down to breakfast, or… "

 

Again, there’s a moment or two of silence, but this time, it’s Clint who breaks it with a murmured, “Guys, I won’t lie, I _am_ kinda hungry… “

 

“You’re always hungry, Clint,” Natasha quips back without straying her gaze from a balanced Daisy through the warbling wine-red barrier. 

 

“So?” Clint whines, and Wanda can see Natasha rolling her eyes from beside her (though she does her very best to direct all her focus towards maintaining her admittedly slapdash attempt at a solid protective boundary). 

 

Pietro raises his hand up in the air then like he’s in school, though he doesn’t quite wait to be called upon before he’s blurting out, “Are you going to kill us?” 

 

Daisy’s almond-shaped brown eyes widen incrementally (though they look almost black in the immersive glow basking the room in luminous crimson), brows furrowing in something Wanda’s far too tentative to believe is genuine shock. “What? No, we—"

 

“And how the _hell_ are we supposed to trust that?” Tony snaps, crossing his arms stubbornly over his chest (—really, it’s almost impressive that the boy manages to maintain an ever-stifling air of self-importance even clad in only boxers and a thin sweater). 

 

Daisy bites her lip. “Guys,” she pleads quietly, eyes darting to look at Clint and Natasha and Wanda and Pietro in turn. “We’re _friends_.”

 

“Are we?” Natasha quips, and Daisy’s face falls slightly. 

 

“Who do you work for?” Clint questions next with a shrewd expression—idly, Wanda takes a moment to think that that’s probably the most prudent inquiry anyone has asked all morning. 

 

Daisy hesitates for a moment, her jaw tightening as they all watch with bated breath, and Wanda’s fairly sure they’re not going to like the answer (if they get one in the first place, that is). “Just… come downstairs, okay? I promise I’ll explain everything.”

 

“Oh, _hell_ no,” Tony denounces, and, for once, Wanda can’t help but agree with him. “I’ve seen Game of Thrones, alright? Robb Stark didn’t stand a fucking _ch_ —"

 

“Are you talking about the Red Wedding?” Clint questions then, a single brow raised. 

 

Tony snorts. “Obviously.”

 

“…. Right,” Daisy acquiesces eventually, a distinctly confused expression on her red-tinged face. “So, I’m not totally sure what all _that_ ,” she gestures ambiguously at them with an emphatic gesture, “was supposed to mean, but I—“

 

“Hold on, you’ve never seen Game of Thrones?” Clint asks, the suspicion from earlier rapidly fading from his tone in favor of genuine puppy-like interest. 

 

Pietro blanches. “How is _that_ important?"

 

“I don’t watch those, Clint, I’m too pretty,” Daisy answers back without a moment’s hesitation, disregarding Pietro entirely, and Wanda hears Natasha suppress a snicker from beside her. “Look,” she addresses them, undeniable tiredness seeping into her tone as her gaze comes to rest upon Wanda. “Can you please lower this,” she pauses then, waving at the glowing crimson wall in a sweeping gesture, “ _thing?_ And then we can talk?”

 

Wanda blinks, turning to eye the other kids even as her hands tremble with the exertion of holding up the barrier. “Should I?”

 

Natasha lets out a soft sigh. “I gue—"

 

“ _No!_ ” Tony yelps, sounding rather panicked. 

 

“Tony… " Natasha trails off, rubbing exhaustedly at her temples. 

 

“Oh, don’t ‘Tony’ me!” he quickly retorts, arms still stubbornly crossed against his chest, and Wanda rolls her eyes. “We have no idea what their endgame is!”

 

“We just want to keep you safe,” Daisy pipes up decisively by way of answering, brows stitched in an expression that resembles genuine sincerity. “We’re on your s—"

 

“Shut it, 007,” Tony growls, and Daisy’s lips twitch. 

 

“Drop the barrier, Wanda,” Natasha tells her gently, and Wanda affords her a nod, already focusing on—

 

“No, Dorothy, keep the barrier _up_ ,” Tony commands, his voice raised, and Wanda instinctually halts even as Clint embarks on an entirely unnecessary ramble: 

 

“Wait, but Dorothy wasn’t even a _witch_ —"

 

“Shut up,” “Shut up,” both Natasha and Tony interrupt simultaneously. 

 

“Wanda,” Natasha says then, turning to fully face Wanda with a determined expression on regal features. “Take it d—"

 

“ _No_.”

 

Natasha shifts her gaze to glower at Tony. “ _Yes_.”

 

“ _No!_ "

 

“ _Yes!_ "

 

“I’m trying to _help_ us—"

 

“ _I’M_ trying to help us!"

 

“No, actually, you’re making things w—"

 

“Oh, well _excuuuuse_ me if I don’t want to _die_ today—"

 

_Crack!_ A deafening noise fills the space and the room abruptly begins to shake as a wrecking ball of considerable resistance slams headfirst against Wanda’s barrier, eliciting a desperate shout from her when she feels her concentrated willpower snap painfully with little ceremony in a haze of crackling scarlet—she’s sure she’s imagining things as the room continues to shake around her, as the two-story house groans and creaks audibly with each inexplicable shudder, as a rumbling noise (seeming to originate from where Daisy stands just inside the doorway, even if that’s utter nonsense to speculate) assaults her eardrums until every trace of her crimson magic fades without a trace and she can’t help falling to her knees on the carpeted floor (even if she’s far too out of it to even remotely feel the resultant impact), drained and entirely devoid of any power, the world beginning to darken around her. 

 

Dangling on the precipice of unconsciousness, she wonders if Natasha’s going to be alright, if Pietro will save her since it seems that Wanda can’t—it’s her last thought before the darkness swallows her whole, a cold emptiness settling aptly within her very bones, everything slipping away until the consummate blackness is all she knows and she’s not sure she could think up another worry if she tried. 

 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0_o

**Author's Note:**

> As always, would love feedback on any of it...
> 
> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> (oh and also, you can come shout at me on my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ultralightdumbass) if you wanna chat/talk/whatever!! would love to hear from you guys on there, plus i'm on there a lot more often.. fair warning tho: not a fandom blog)


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